Phoebus Shows

21 lines

21 Guns

that’s two lines—

This is Four;

Ava Adore

Woe unto the whore

86 is a bitch;

“When the mind

 breaks the spirit

 of your soul”

Baneful glow;

Phoebus shows

Brutalist beauty:

Fuck-

Grotesque cunt,

Prey starts to hunt;

runt gets stuck

Glamour in the rut;

Another notch scratched on the belt

Set in stone with nothing to go

Awry Adventure

 

 At exactly a quarter past 3pm yesterday (January 7, 2025) a call came through to me, leading to an awry ran and interesting, to say the least, venture. On the phone calling, my friends Jorgio & Harley with their dog Monkey; who had been hired as help for an aging man’s ranch as extra hands about an hour away from my place of work where we first met around a year ago this time. This was however an unpleasant situation wherein the older gentleman hiring them was essentially spinning false hopes, exploitation of some homeless people more or less. 

 From that I contacted a person named Victor, as he unlike myself is with vehicular transportation. My Subaru Outback unfortunately kicked the bucket about a month and a half prior (after 13 years, for the most part on the original battery no less) which created a small conundrum in the escape attempt later…

 Driving 40 minutes solely to get me in the debacle, a quick $26 worth of gas and officially embarking off to the soundtrack of Boston’s 1976 self-titled album. 

 Looking like a scene from Seattle the sky was steadily letting itself down onto the town below, we eventually arrived to the dirt road of damn-near-damnation. 

 Driving in a Kia, little more need be highlighted how terribly those cars are in regards to being sub-par in all-terrain performance. We made it all but about 75% of the way to the ranch before having to stop so as to not bottom out the automobile. Getting out after pulling to the side, I walked the remainder of the 15 minutes to the ranch gate, finding Harley & Monkey. One would think of it simple from there. One would be of course, wrong, or there’d be less interesting of a story to note down. 

 Their stay at the ranch culminated in an attempt at normal diplomacy as one would when moving from a property not theirs, Jorgio attempted sophisticated interaction with the man. Such got a .22 drawn on him. Claiming that Harley had stolen a spoon and plate, somehow… 

 From there it was get the fuck out of dodge. After an hour and a half of back and forth in the rain trying to get one of the dogs back onto the ranch and the Wonder Twins (plus Monkey) finding their way in the pitch black to the car. Arriving back to a concerned Victor sometime closer to 7:14 at night it had luckily stopped raining. Had it continued the dirt road likely would have flooded and stranded us all. Not being the case however we were off. 

 Culminating finally in a quartet performance of us all singing along to Queen’s We Are The Champions after stopping by a dispensary to pick up a few celebratory joints. From there Victor and I dropped the three off at a Bashas they have some niches around; then went across the street to the gas station I work at for a few free drinks (courtesy of my employment), cleaning stuff for his back seat, and a cookie. 

 Getting back home from there to sit back down at the desk where it all began some 6 hours before. Situating some creepily cute antique dolls Jorgio handed off for me to hold; together they’re worth some $3000 total. A cool find from a month ago. There to write this tale from the day. 

Tied Truths

Grasping,

Gasping;

Clogged tongue,

Tied truths:

Opposing instinct—

tried, untrue. 

Vain vein-

Vae Victis-

Vague tempest-

Elated automation,

Medicated dedication,

Alleviated interception:

Memory is more a digression 

Excessive ecstasy to depreciating delicacy

Exclusive— 

What the fuck is being ‘free’?

Noting Nothing

*aside before this: though it’s ‘NN’ abbreviation ability the name it is not part of the Neurotic Nihilism series. It’s just notes in the midst of nothing. Stream of consciousness. Like Time Eats. Not a Neurotic Nihilism entry. 

The clock I put on the wall reads its hands at about 7 minutes until 3pm. I’m at work, a slow day in contrast to last Thursday. Not much aside that and a podcast in my ear.

A customer walks in. He has me check his lottery ticket. Winning $3 he chose to purchase another three tickets, promising like many a day to reward me handsomely, should they ‘win big.’ I doubt such ever would happen— after all I only have about another 6 weeks here; and I have never seen a person win higher than $500. What I see is more spent in wishful attempts than in successful return. I have a theory that lottery winners, in the larger numbers, tend to be preplanned and much of the money spent on the lottery is more akin to a fundraiser which goes until the fever reaches a breaking point; as seen with the madness I experienced last week. Multiple shifts of almost endless faces buying their share in the slight possibility of having the government breathing down their neck for taxes till they die…

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It’s true what Patti Smith says in M-Train, that, “it’s not so easy writing about nothing.”

Being at work, writing about something is more fit for a night shift. During the day, less time is afforded. Before coming in I was reading a bit of Dita Von Teese’s book Your Beauty Mark; admittedly a bit absent-mindedly in the process thinking of it’s concepts; in association with an anonymous quote, commonly and falsely attributed to Nietzsche, about the difference in killing a moth and butterfly being viewed in differing moral lenses based on mere aesthetic appearance.

Moths being a major proponent in proving adaptable traits in evolution, history seems to offer a differing regard. Not too dissimilar in that the species are quite similar in origin and outlined appearance, the morality is blurry. Subjective. Moths are goth and butterflies are hippies. 

Goth came from the punk movement largely, which was in many ways a direct counter to the hippie ideals. Both however in their heights were looked upon with distaste by the respective (and typically same) establishment(s) around.

Aesthetics backed by ideas they ignite via their pathos and ethos grabbing propaganda clash. 

Vibrant, a butterfly seems lively in fields of flowers on a sunny day. A moth is of the night, hovering around flame and street lights; phantasmal, some genomes even have patterns likening to human skulls on their bodies… Goths sacked Rome and byproducts of the hippie movement murdered Sharon Tate in meth-addled manifestation. 

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In my ear Bill Maher and Jimmy Kimmel argue whether or not movies become reality. All things considered, I agree with Bill more. Apocalyptic is fetishistic, but it’s rather realistic if the way we go is by our own hand. Or like the cosmos killing the dinosaurs. Self fulfilling prophecy is true but in gradual decline. Interesting ideation on an instance unlikely end personal witness to in spite of inevitability. 

In a sense Bill’s whole club random podcast is mundane extremes, in a sense. 

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Thinking, at first it seems ironic for those adhering to the Christian faith to get tattoos of even crosses on their persona. On consideration though, why would that be so queer? Going in terms of the idea of ‘slave morality’ the faith came from the widespread adoption of those typically in servitude. Throughout time the marking of bound constituents in some form or another has been enacted so signify that slave status. In the rejection of all other entities before and in service to the Abrahamic Lord, it’s a marker without a mark. Given Adam and Eve began as nude until they got knowledge of the fact and everything apparently went to shit because a piece of fruit got eaten, and in Revelation with the imbued Mark of the Beast by the evil other entity (who was historically a substitute for a disliked emperor, to further add differentiators which also lends a bit more to the idea building, it seems). In a sense it’s akin to the proletariat against bourgeoisie in communist history and theory… Prohibition being Levitical law however if I remember reading correctly, according to Christian doctrines such as Catholicism say such got superseded with the New Testament and Jesus doing away with the old covenant… the implication being said rule is Jewish in the Abrahamic family tree, not Christian. 

Seemingly, it makes a bit of sense they would get the cross tattooed, among other non-religious iconography and images. And that it’s a 2,000 year old dogma, as well as an almost innate inclination for humans to veer towards bodily glamour of varying degrees such happens. 

Not being Christian, or ever having been, I’m altogether unsure. Their theology is their own mess to make up as they please. 

I like the two cross of Lorraine tattoos I have though. As a random aside with all that. 

***                                ***                              ***

nothing. 

nothing. 

or something, it’s nothing. 

***                                ***                              ***

I guess I’ll get coffee. Well, when these people leave. This location doesn’t have any flavored syrups so I substitute: a few shots of hazelnut creamer, coffee, then some French vanilla creamer and mixing till it looks like a milkshake. Boom. Good coffee. 

Rarely, I have learned, is there ever a truly bad coffee. Only bad coffee makers. 

Psycho-Neurotic || Neurotic Nihilism IV.4

Brett Easton Ellis’ famed book turned movie starring Christian Bale, American Psycho; begins its descent into delusion with the imagery of foreboding red inscriptions quoting what Dante in his Inferno claimed to be on the gates of Hell greeting those who enter: “ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.” Blood red, as the text details. 

According to Ellis, his writing portrays a psychotic episode in textual representation. Dialogues as long as Ayn Rand’s monologues about anything, everything down to the minute smallest detail. Eyes viewing with obsessive compulsion, more than mere perfectionism; endless knowledge of memorized factoids about average apparel (at least, for Patrick Bateman’s class); and grandiosity all the while in a state of free-fall. Seemingly with no ground to finally crash down onto. Never is it told in the course of the nearly 400 pages of descent if the character portrayed is psychotic by nature or developed disorder…. Psycho being in the title, the implication is less of a mere fantasy from an unreliable narrator like Hubert Humphrey in Nabokov’s infamous Lolita, more an actual psychopath’s inner monologue after reaching past the point of depersonalization. 

Whether the presented perspective in the book is merely embellished from insane insight or delusional delight, is up to interpretation. 

Brett Easton Ellis has stated in interviews that Bateman is quite largely based on his own mental fugue of experience in the 1980s as a closeted, repressed homosexual. Readers and viewers of American Psycho might pause with that remark, given in both film and novel the character Luis makes explicit advances on Patrick; one must also consider the time, place and taste. 

Sexuality is a part of the human animal, for better or worse. A procreative prerogative paired with intelligent imagination. Similarly, that Homo Sapiens have animalistic impulses—harsher hobbies— often not disconnected to sexuality is true. Domesticated dogs are often neutered for a reason— it’s called ‘fixed’ quite ironically. Like sexuality barbaric, brutal behaviors are also loaded into the genetic gun. Like a dog, even neutered, humans get frustrated (to say the least) in said regard. 

Definitionally, the word psycho means, “a mentally sick or neurotic person.” Psychotic and Neurotic differ in detail; though are slight synonyms. Psychotic, coming out of psycho,  lending then to the term ‘psychosis’ which is defined as, “a major mental disorder characterized by a disintegration of personality.” In relation to Neurosis, such is, “less serious than a psychosis, marked by severe anxiety, depression and the like, without any apparent physical origin.” Then lending to Psychoneurosis, being a more direct verbiage for the idea of a neurotic individual (New Webster’s Medical Dictionary, 1981).

A state of psychosis implies neurosis whereas neuroticism in of itself is not psychotic. Psychoneurotic goes with neurosis, meaning a psychotic individual is psychoneurotic; however psychoneurosis on its own is not an implicit signal for psychosis; only neurosis. 

A better illustration to this, in less graphic though nearly melancholic lense: the 1980s dark fantasy Nietzschean film The Never Ending Story. Also based on a book, the movie makes a montage of the collapse of imagination— life in a sense for the human animal as we consciously live— into a literal gaping void of Nothing. Only is it resurrected by the reader of the story, who has to have the power of a truly wondrous, childlike, naïve imagination. 

Without imagination a person is, like Patrick Bateman, an automation. Alive, but a person without a person. Going through the motions of harsher hobbies, his being external rather than purely personal. Bateman exists in a banal branch of the American Upper Class in New York. Working despite not having to, the life of upper echelon business surrounds him. While he’s shown to not be the sole solipsist in a state of decay— all around his colleagues are consuming copious amounts of cocaine, fretting over suits and sluts, competing over better business cards, etcetera— it directly gives the perspective of his own person, without a person. Psychotic, past the point of neurotic depersonalization. The title of the book cannot be clearer in connotation for the contents of its pages: an American Psycho. 

Chicken or the egg: what came first, the economic situation or mental illness?

To defer to Mark Fisher, hauntological philosopher of lost futures and acid communism; in his K-Punk writings speaking in various essays in regards to activities seen as degenerate, the difference in deviancy is quite little regardless of class position. What closes up the gap, according to Fisher, can be summed up as an extreme boredom of the banal bullshit; to the point of neurosis, leading to psychosis. 

Foregoing any conclusion to Patrick’s confession, it amounts to a completely void story. Not ending in arrest or death, simply five capitalized words stating: “THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.”

Time Eats

Blue light beaming digits on the screen tell me it’s 8:42pm on December 31, 2025. Unsurprisingly I’m in a room and it’s just me, myself and I. A TV plays in the living room; outside fireworks crackle like incoherent turrets— people celebrating the year coming to a close. 

A year is an interesting idea. That it starts in winter I find odd— given the idea is a ‘new’ year it should be akin to rebirth; or the season of spring. However, given the tilting of the axis the seasons across hemispheres are in constant loop. In a sense maybe one of the spring or autumn (depending on the geographical placement from the equator) would suit better placeholders. 

It’s a rather fruitless attempt at debate, time being relative; a year on Earth is quite a few elsewhere in the solar system. Time only matters and means so much as to what our short lifespans wind up perceiving. A new year is merely a spherical hunk making a loop around a giant ball of gas. To me it seems a bit weird, though in the same manner it must be queer to a Jehovah’s Witness the celebration of that or my own affinity to my date of birth. This next loop around it marks the 20th for me. 

Twenty— 

Has it been plenty?

Running,

out of one thing-

out of money-

into degeneracy

Do I need Misery or

do mysterious entities need me?

Hermit,

Ambiguous spree

Dusk to dust

far from a skeletal husk

Lolita and butterflies by dying flames

What if I stayed?

Hash, fash, perfume splash

Mad last gasp

Head up just as fast

Present is future past

Yet another to best

Time eats without teeth

20 lines for 20 years, come March that is. But I’ll count it. Technically, I would have been ‘alive’ in the womb 20 years ago tonight. I say technically as unless I had higher brain functioning that would make it so I can be writing this now, which it is possible of being in the time of that trimester then such tends to develop, I would consider myself alive in more ways akin to a symbiote in Spider Man. 

I’ve had this coffee I’m sipping on since about midnight last night, only have a bit less than half drank— I fell asleep shortly after walking out to get it; with it I also got two packets of Planters salted peanuts. Of the two one remains in ever so slightly decreasing quantity. A siren briefly starts then quiets as quickly, a fire vehicle from the sound of it. So begins the semi-annual explosive-related incident surge which happens this time, and July with Independence Day’s celebratory tradition. 

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Outside, though dark, it’s nicely overcast with slight sprinkling of rainfall— the air feels nice, but heavy. Ozone permeates every inhale through the nasal cavity. 

The plastic piece goes between my lips, I breathe in with my mouth like to sip from a straw and electric myst enters my entity. Holding a second, upon exhaling there’s minimal fog. Adrenaline shortly coursing through and nicotine giving its focusing fumes. I yawn. Not terribly tired even though the lids of my eyes weigh slightly. Intake—hold—elate. Coffee doing its use. Putting my headphones on, covering only one ear I press play on Meine Musik. Marilyn Manson’s Keep My Head Together begins instantly— I have the We Are Chaos CD but I want LOUD and variety; and to feel what I hear, so headphones suffice until the morning when I’m completely alone. The song is good. I wrote much on it in notebooks— I get it now though. I think, but probably not— I can interpret though… Bleeding from and into the vibrationally industrial 3Teeth’s song Atrophy. 

I could, well, more accurately should be reading, or maybe working my notes on Plato’s Phaedo into some sort of better essay; but writing this suffices. An exercise I don’t do as much as earlier in the year. From 3Teeth to Depeche Mode, the live version of Stripped from their 101 album. I remember listening to this at full volume in the car while driving amidst a raging storm in the Colorado mountains. With the wrong split second I very well could have died, impossible to see anything but black and flashes of lightning too quick and pale to see with beyond the bumper ahead of me, red tail lights lights guiding as my map had long since lost signal… Inevitably ascending the mountain to spend a nice rest of that night in the park by Columbine High School…

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The phone tells me it is now 9:48pm. Death Effector Domains, an interesting number begins in my ear. Groovy tune, not much more than a nice vibe. I feel it would lead really well into High Pressure Dave by HEALTH, quickly putting it as the next track right in time. My bias confirmed. 

Getting distracted by my phone, I threw it and my headphones to the side. For now I’ll have more peanuts, coffee and delve further into the pages of Patti Smith’s book M-Train; which is the whole motivator for this stream of conscious writing. 

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Read a bit more, got lost on my phone a bit more. Now it’s 11:34, turn it upside down and it spells hell. Hell… there’s an essay on that in a book I have playing interesting word games with regards to Hell. When I get up in the morning I’ll reread it. For now, I go to take a few pictures…

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A Dissertation of Warning by Green Day|| Neurotic Nihilism IV.3

Prior Note:

This is not a traditional dissertation per se— songs are expanded on based on necessary explanation and interpretation. What’s simply said is simply said; or the opposite depending on, as said, felt necessity. Green Day isn’t terribly hard to understand on a general listen; however aside catchy International Superhits there is possibility of music for the mind both aside and even within that. This is an analysis from the ears of Neurotic Nihilism’s broad thesis of thought experiments. 

Prelude.

2000 was the New Year, marking the culmination of a century on the Gregorian Calendar. The finale of the 20th century and moment of Limbo between Columbine before the nose-dive starting in the wake of 9/11… Things were still just as hyper-normalized in a sense; just as skeptical— neurotic and nihilistic: not quite off the tip of the buildings yet, but in a serene sense of false optimism on a wire in between them, so to say.  

On the third day of the tenth month of the centennial start, 13 numbers were given to public consumption as Green Day released their sixth studio album Warning. 

Met with some cringe to being a stylistic differentiation from their previous records, gaining praise for it just as well. Stepping away from the harshness of Insomniac, glittery Dookie, varying Nimrod for a direction more in tune to the likes of the Pixies; with more eloquent and ‘mature’ (for lack of a better word) prose; trappings later more prevalent on albums like 21st Century Breakdown or Revolution Radio. 

“There’s a sense of hope on this record, on a personal level for humanity in general. I don’t think there is anything on there that is too self-absorbed or dwells on the negative.”

— Billie Joe Armstrong, Frontman; ‘Green Day: American Idiots & The New Punk Explosion’ by Ben Myers

Uniquely, in the same sense as a slacker film, though the ‘worthless pessimist’ is notable throughout, there is a more optimistic reverence for the Limbo— in realizing ‘what it takes’ as the album declares on the final track Macy’s Day Parade, though, “the Knight of the living dead is on his way,” already, learning the hard way. 

1. Warning

Title-track opening as often happens, is the song Warning. “A public service announcement, not a test,” it sets up a common, but personally cynical tone following the listener throughout the album’s proceeding stages. 

With some exception, Warning is the first by Green Day to be so directly sociocultural. Taking aim at ideals of luxury; what  ‘really matters’ against simply getting “your philosophy from a bumper sticker.” To live without Warning, as a warning. 

2. Blood Sex & Booze

A nice commentary on S&M opening with the sound of a dominatrix beating the shit out of someone in studio— an event also filmed. Multifaceted in its scope, it’s as well insightful regarding certain chosen hobbies— as pointed out by underground artist Shane Bugbee, it is often easier and cheaper to see a prostitute than a therapist. 

Not daring to move, even though it hurts it feels so good. Predicaments gotten into; and wallowed in the results of for pleasure. What solipsism gets later explained in better detail on the song Misery on the supposed jouir in surrender of personal power to mundane extremes. 

3. Church On Sunday

    See: A Track Trinity || Neurotic Nihilism III.2

4. Fashion Victim

Dancing into the dog and pony show, Fashion Victim. 

Lyrically leveling bullets in an upbeat tune, it is Green Day’s equivalent to Marilyn Manson’s Get Your Gunn. A criticism of the Celebritarian culture of fashion and model-dom; as well as reaction to the shooting of the (slightly in)famous designer Gianni Versace. Owing inspiration from drummer Tré Cool wearing, “this t-shirt that Tre had on that had bullet holes in it and a slogan saying ‘Fashion Victim #1,’” noted Billie Joe in regards to the coagulating stimuli synthesized into the sonic number. Ironically, it being so groovy that it could be played on a catwalk, intentionally or all-the-while walkers oblivious to it’s levying vocabulary a critique rather than encouragement of their belonged institutions and influence. 

5. Castaway

Before there was Boulevard Of Broken Dreams, “a mission into destination unknown; an expedition onto desolation road,” is the song Castaway. Not a predecessor in the same regard as Black Eyeliner to Church On Sunday (and much later on  and under The Longshot, Kill Your Friends), rather a “sentimental journey into sight and sound.” The earlier song isn’t as heavy as the one later apart of their punk rock opera that is American Idiot. The idea is the same even though drastically and contextually different. What James Franco’s character in the comedic film The Interview said to be, ‘same-same, but different.’

6. Misery

Onto desolation road, a ride is hitched to Misery. When Warning is referred to as Green Day’s experimental record (far prior to 2020’s Father Of All Motherfuckers), it is due to tracks such as this; a sardonically bitter sonic groove in relation to other works. The beginning sounds like that of an 8-bit organ from some retro-spooky haunted house pixelated analogue arcade game. What could be characterized as the horror of mundane reality one can liminally exist within. 

“And we’re gonna get high, high, high

 When we’re low, low, low

 And she screamed, ‘why, oh why?’

 I said, ‘I don’t know’

 The catastrophic hymns from yesterday

 Of Misery…”

Although not a concept record like American Idiot or to some extent that of 21st Century Breakdown, in being on an aforementioned “journey into sight and sound,” into desolation road from Castaway; the road is almost innately a liminal stretch of land; for leisure or, well, Misery in its ongoing listlessness. 

A parallel exists here and in Lord Of The Rings, wherein Bilbo Baggins leaving his hole sings: ‘the road goes ever on…’, scenery  bleeding through itself until the mind needs a relief. Escaping the normal through escapism of the normal. 

Like in Blood, Sex & Booze, it is not so black and white and the lines of mild mundane and miserable moping blur often, “panhandling Misery”— longing for its pleasure; even if it’s meaningless. Or on the reverse of this flimsily (somewhat self-) constructed tale it could be an escape from that Misery into meaninglessness. After all, to relay to Marilyn Manson: ‘we love the abuse because it makes us feel like we are needed,’ as the line in the song I Want To Disappear off the album Mechanical Animals goes. 

Misery is to get by. Like in Stephen King’s book The Long Walk when the character Parker bluntly stated the biological imperative in life to Ray Garraty: ‘it’s all a bunch of phony crap that passes the time. But don’t shit me. The bottom line is you still want to live,’ even in the ‘cosmic joke’ that suffering absurdly exists… because we love to hate it. 

An Ouroboros, but not so dualistic. 

7. Deadbeat Holiday

Green Day is a band that makes anthemic scores, notably as mentioned before American Idiot or the latest album Saviors with its arm pumping prose. Within Warning’s middle lies an anthem not given as much due as the former mentioned in spite of it being on the same level of track as Minority later on the album, if not somewhat more monumental in its tune. 

Deadbeat Holiday, taking much from the previously played parts of the LP and synthesizing them in a way that the title track grasps with whispers of but only encapsulating a fraction. To ‘live without Warning’ as the title track suggests to the listener, a state of revelry.

“Deadbeat Holiday

 Celebrate your own decay

 There’s a vacant sign that’s hanging high

 on a noose over your home…”

Warning is the anthem neurotically, albeit passively in presentation, proclaiming itself and Deadbeat Holiday is the neurotically logical conclusion to, “piss it all away.” But it’s all okay as to tie it back to the mutual faith of Church On Sunday, in that last chance, “at least you’re not alone,” ideally. 

Where Misery winds up, Deadbeat Holiday responds, “when all you wanna do,” is to, “not give up,” despite that being what would be necessary sustenance for a bruised ego…

8. Hold On 

The sentimental journey rounding back to misery, ideally in the Deadbeat Holiday it’s not alone. However setting the stage is the reality of it. Stepping onto and edge beyond a shadow of doubt: 

“When you’ve lost all hope

 And excuses

 And the cheapskates and the losers

 Nothing’s left to cling onto

 You’ve gotta hold on

 Hold onto yourself.”

Survival in a nutshell: people on similar streams of suffering serve simply to feed off one another. So with that it’s a cry, pleading for peace. Like John Flory in Burmese Days longing for the late life he supposedly led at one imaginary point, it’s truth laying from the lost treasures of youth. Moments of memory made to temporary energy, feeding on Misery. 

“as I hold to the break of Day…”

9. Jackass 

Harkonning back a lingering moment with Hold On; the touted line mentioning the futility of, “the cheapskates and the losers,” proceeding on Warning  is Jackass delivering its own delegation; on what can really be described as the advent of Misery, to go back on the road a tad further. 

Jackass is an impersonal mirror which the stagnation becoming apparent and known— “I guess I just can’t listen to this one-sided conversation again.”

Stasis is often in the synapses, embedded and causing neuroplasticity difficulty in recovery of mind. Grandiosely being bitter at being, “the center of attention got an honorable mention once again.”

There’s an old platitude stating that even a broken clock is right at least once (if not twice) a day, going endlessly on to that fixed point. Aside from the rhythm in music, time being relative is but a human measurement and with that:

“No one ever said that life was fair

 everybody loves a joke but no one likes a fool

 And you’re always cracking the same old lines again

 You’re well-rehearsed on every verse

 and that was stayed clear

 But no one understands your verity”

Verity as defined in the Webster’s New World Dictionary & Thesaurus denotes something of actuality—a principle taken to be fundamentally true that is. And with that round again it is back to Misery in the way Emil Cioran elucidated it in his seminal Short History Of Decay; the essence of his writing of the concept that in the apparent or supposed severity humans imbue events in life (as well as life itself) with such a grandiosity, it becomes solipsistic; believing that essentially no one has suffered more so much as to even comprehend it. We are solipsistic in suffering on set loops, in essence. 

Like Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite… [see Neurotic Nihilism II.3: Exemplary Jackass]

10. Waiting

Undoubtedly the most optimistic and upbeat song in terms of lyricism and melody enters Waiting. A spectacular flash-mob celebration, if only you could just “wake up” from the aforementioned Misery and have some fun. Whether that moment of satisfaction is achieved can be debated:

“Dumbstruck

 Colour me stupid

 good luck

 You’re gonna need it 

 Where I’m going if I get there 

 at all”

Not a matter of when the arrival at destination unknown could be, moreso, “close enough to taste it, almost […] embrace this feeling […] on the tip of my tongue” as the verse triumphantly declares. 

‘Don’t get cocky!’ the captain of the Millennium Falcon in Star Wars Han Solo once sharply exclaimed, as though it’s too late to go back, “ready or not at all…”

So: “wake up!”

11. Minority

Inarguably the most played tune off the album, political in a newer poppy light that would be seen most acutely in similar form on 21st Century Breakdown. All that sensory revelry in anticipation from holding on, beyond the cheapskates and losers, mightfully aligning with “the minority.”

Thematically, in the structure of the album its declaration could be likened to Ayn Rand’s thought that ‘the individual is the smallest minority in the world’ in its cynical streak. Green Day out of the East Bay pink scene with their own politics apparent, do inherently diverge from the epistemologist of Objectivism on most everything else; do however fit together on some puzzle pieces. 

“I pledge allegiance to the underworld 

 One nation under dog 

 There of which I stand alone

 A face in the crowd 

 Unsung, against the mold

 Without a doubt,

 Singled out

 The only way I know…”

An instance of iconoclasm for the Pledge of Allegiance; and likening it to another concept it’s essentially the idea of Tuning In and Dropping Out of mob rule; naturally or by nurtured observation and experience. The conclusion being, “a free for all, fuck ‘em all, you are your own sight…”

12. Macy’s Day Parade

Existentially egressing from the lonesome end of the journey into sight and sound is a ballad infused with wisdom of understanding and longing. Closing Warning greets weary ears of fellow travelers to chords of contemplation and an ideal for supposed assimilation. 

Acceptance?

Taking heed from Warning (in terms of the title track) and running from it, neurosis ensues on some level; while fickle sadomasochistic direct participation is, the banality is longed for. 

Moments of Might in states of resting silent salience. Serenading the sound is an odd optimism within the saudadic lyricism denoting innate aspirations:

“Give me something that I need

 Satisfaction guaranteed

 Because I’m thinking about 

 a brand new hope

 the one I’ve never known

 ‘Cause now I know

 It’s all that I wanted…”

Unfortunately as “the knight of the living dead is on his way, with the credit report,” for finally figuring out the differences, or so one would seemingly falsely assume, and leaving the Jackass’ behind. Learning the hardest way…

Neurotic. Nihilistic. End of the day. 

Entertaining Envy || Neurotic Nihilism IV.2

1. Ending of (Burmese) Days

The climax of George Orwell’s Burmese Days is not in the valor of John Flory; resulting from his actions in the riot instilled by U Po Kyin’s efforts of libel against Doctor Versawami. Climax comes after the matter when it seems Flory is nearly to attain that late life he once believed to have lead: the past in the form of Ma Hla May’s dismay in full blind rage— though egged on by U Po Kyin’s efforts, the crocodile striking with the weakest spot— arriving at a church service, a funeral for for a mutilated young Englishman wherein he, as well as most everyone of note in the area was an attendee; including Elizabeth. 

Confirming in the Burmese spoken shrieks, the whole message of her fury; and obliterating any possible future for Flory’s late life with Elizabeth. 

Having shortly dealt with the outburst, the assembly dispersed and Flory made one final, futile and; textually visceral in its depiction of his pathetic desperation in attempt at attaining the conquest of Elizabeth’s hand in life. Rejected, he retires to to his abode. In a fast-moving-slow-motion-page-turning-scene Flory uses his gun to shoot Flo, a dog, and then turn it to his chest and pull the trigger on himself.

Subsequently committing suicide, which was quickly covered up by Doctor Versawami. Having regained his position in the society around them as a result of sharing Flory’s glory as his friend and actions during the riot, he was more or less for the time vindicated of the slander from U Po Kyin’s propoganda and about to be elected by Flory’s vote a seat at the English club. However, being dead the Doctor was left undefended from the unrelenting power-hungry crocodile and further seditious slanting slander reduced him to nothing. 

U Po Kyin, who the story began its telling with a description of, did not get to bask in his moment of Might for long either and died just after achieving all he envied. Leaving his wife fearful of Karma giving it’s due to him according to tradition. 

Elizabeth moved merrily on. Much of Flory’s misery was seemingly as an effect of his own solipsistic projecting personal prides— though more akin to fetishes— and insecurities onto her. He envied a life he never let leave his head until his own actions eventually became his own undoing, then dying fully by his own hand. 

2. Exploring Envy

Prior to the culminating chapter of his 1934 book, Orwell wrote a stark remark against the covetous cognitive decline relating to the evocation of Envy:

“Envy is a horrible thing. It is unlike all other suffering in that there is no disguising it, no elevating it into tragedy. It is more than merely painful, it is disgusting.”

Contrasting the negative nature embodied by George Orwell’s characterization, is a more utilitarian approach to the supposed sin. Having dictated into his diabolical diatribe The Satanic Bible on the more useful aspects of the instinctual drifting towards carnal desires, the Black Pope, Anton Szandor LaVey wrote: 

“Envy means to look with favor upon the possessions of others, and to be desirous of obtaining similar things for oneself. Envy and greed are the motivating forces of ambition— and without ambition, very little of any importance would be accomplished.”

Then with a somewhat surprising disagreement to the radical egoism presented in LaVey’s familial philosophy, Ayn Rand in her book Return Of The Primitive: The Anti-Industrial Revolution, purported Envy to actually be a simple place holder, substituting for, “the hatred of the good for being good” in emotional form. Dedicating an entire chapter to the conscious concept of coveting, ‘The Age of Envy’ denotes and admonishes an entire epoch of human behavior as being dragged down by it. 

“Superficially, the motive of those who hate the good is taken to be envy. A dictionary definition of envy is: ‘1. A sense of discontent or jealousy with regard to another’s advantages, success, possessions, etc. 2. A desire for an advantage possessed by another.’ (The Random House Dictionary, 1968) The same dictionary adds the following elucidation: ‘To envy is to feel resentful because someone else possesses or has achieved what one wishes oneself to possess or to have achieved.’ 

This covers a great many emotional responses, which come from different motives. In a certain sense the second definition is the opposite of the first, and the more innocent of the two…”

Typical to Randian fashion, though surprising to her making of Selfishness into a Virtue; Envy is seen in a negative because, (to use a term from LaVey as descriptor,) in unmitigated cases of psychic vampires— at least in her mind, in her ideal of the capitalist utopia Objectivism serves as philosophical justification for— leeching off those with the momentum from originality and with their own Roarkian brains and brawn. Disregarding Envy as sinful not because it breaks the commandment of ‘Thou Shall Not Covet…’, it is cast aside as it seems mental masturbation for people without many original ideas— what PT Barnum may have (possibly) called the ‘sucker born every minute.’ 

“The feeling is less innocent, if it amounts to ‘I want to put on a front…’ The result is a second-hander who lives beyond his means, struggling to ‘keep up with the Joneses.’ 

[…] 

Envy is part of this creature’s feeling, but only the superficial, semirespectable part… because it seems to imply a desire for material possessions, which is a human being’s desire  but, deep down, the creature has no such desire…”

Orwell and Rand differ in disregard to Envy; wherein LaVey said it to be a motivating factor for desire— a form of what in later books he would call and explain more, Erotic Crystallization Inertia (ECI for short) to draw from for one’s own thing. Egoistically, the Black Pope did just that in making Satanism; Rand in her re-defining and hijacking of the term ‘selfish’ also did the same— which as pointed out by LaVey, is or could be derived from ambition spurred by Envy. A read of her Journals proves as much as a read of Anthem does; even in her essay The Age of Envy she continues to prove that idea, even if unknowingly. Echoing:

“In regard to one’s own feelings, only a rigorously conscientious habit of introspection can enable one to be certain of the nature and causes of one’s emotional responses.”

To her point, that both Orwell and LaVey would likely all toast with one another to; is a simple question, even if it causes one to freeze in their sockets: What is a desire (or thought) without action and some attainment? Is attainment full success leading to a moment of Might? what is total success? or is such also another way of asking about Might in failure?

Illusory, why is it so grandiose?

Electric Myst || Neurotic Nihilism IV. 1.3

“       King. 

‘And can you, by no drift of circumstance,

 Get from him why he puts on this confusion,

 Grating so harshly all his days of quiet

 With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?’”

    —William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act III Scene I

While not directly correlated to the text of Shakespeare’s quoted play touching on the topic of decay; the poem is about decay and in a sense the more degenerative, addictive kind. Where sloth and Envy are rather negative in overindulged amounts— though Envy does require further study as it is a misconstrued, or rather more misunderstood term which gets too often interchanged with ‘jealous’ when it has differing connotations. In that Envy it also serves as the final prelude to a full dissertation of the album Warning by Green Day, or when fully typed up and edited: Neurotic Nihilism IV.2 & IV.3.

Picking skin:

Head constricted—

Intent spin.

Surface-level:

Breathe in the smoke,

Ease in electrical myst

4 shots—

Cold and enough:

Coffee glee,

Nice coating gleam

Sitting while nails tear mesh seams

Fated, faithful, fatal—

diabolical,

maniacal,

“Let’s get physical- physical”

Imaginary atypical,

hermit-hominid-hypothetical

Lost and never want to be found:

Up, up 

and around,

“On a sentimental journey into sight and sound…”

Crash and learn,

like Icarus’ wings burned. 

Pigmented Picture || Neurotic Nihilism IV.1.2

Exhaustion—

Forlorn; foreign caution…

Hollow hell,

Cornea swells,

Pupils divide—

Treason rules:

Believe it,

See it:

Seethe, relieve—

Addictive pet peeves

Concede, covet,

Rinse,

beautiful self-deceit…

Eat, sleep—

Bitch gritting teeth;

insert, alleviate,

Cell fracture—

New texture—

Dark mixture—

Pigmented picture,

Blotted stitch,

irresponsibly unscratchable itch

Always conniving,

Banality surviving…

Brutalism is contemporary:

Dark-data-Dadaist/

Lycanthropic entropy

Fleshy listless—

Shift is risk:

Staying is stagnation,

slow subsequent suicide—

Better a bullet in the eye

Blind to empathetic guise,

Smile-wrapped lies

Eternally rehearsed:

subject, place and verse

Abject ghoul

Plastic tool