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Objective, Subjective and Asubjective
We crave order, a map of the buzzing confusion we call existence. So we dream up these categories: objective, subjective, asubjective. Objective? Pure, unadulterated fact, cold and hard like a chrome thermometer. But is this “temperature” just another code word slapped on the writhing mess of the real? Sure, the reading might be objective, a…
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Against the Day
Pynchon, man, that dude throws a Molotov cocktail into the country club of proper English. Forget your Strunk & White, this ain’t your daddy’s prose. Pynchon, throws a Molotov cocktail into the cocktail party of proper English. Forget your white-glove grammar and your predictable sentence structures. This ain’t your momma’s book club. “Against the Day”…
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Freudalism and Imperial Marx
Flickering neon signs cast the cobbled streets in a strobing red. A knight in rusted armor, his visor cracked, chases a scuttling peasant through the alleyways. The peasant clutches a tattered copy of Das Kapital. This is Freudalism, baby. A tangled web of power woven from Oedipal complexes and repression. The Lord, a bloated id…
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Before the Music
The concert hall shimmered, a metallic womb pulsing with fluorescent hum. Musicians, faces pale smudges in the harsh light, drifted in, shedding winter coats like molting insects. A cacophony of coughs, greetings sliced by the metallic screech of oboe tuning. It was the pre-symphony symphony, a chaotic ballet of individual voices yearning for cohesion. The…
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Westworld
Scratching at the surface, man, you see Israel as the iron fist, the puppeteer yanking the US strings. But the Control Panel running Deeper, a roach motel of power where shadows writhe. Israel, is just a fleshy extension, a tentacle of the American Dream dipped in radioactive isotopes – Manifest Destiny dripping with Islamophobia and the sweet, fleshy tang of conquest. Israel, a flickering…
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Manifest Destiny
The US of A, baby, a chrome-plated behemoth sputtering on fumes of Manifest Destiny, and nostalgia, clinging to the delusion of its military-industrial phallus. A great power, it wheezes, chest puffed with ticker-tape parades and fighter jet ballets. But the circuits are fried, man. The real juice, the green, that’s the current coursing through its veins.. A great…
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Old Time Religion
Crawled into an Orthodox church on a Tuesday, man. Virgin Mary dripping everywhere – jeweled icons, frescoes weeping with her sorrow. She’s wired into the whole damn system, feedback loop of piety and guilt. Makes you want to genuflect, mainline incense smoke like a holy fix. Then you stumble out, retinas fried from the gold…
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Man with an Answer Will Sell You Out For A Price
In the flickering neon canyons of Tangier, sweat slick and fear-laced, you find Frankie “The Answer Man” huddled in a roach-infested doorway. His eyes, bloodshot marbles trapped in a creased leather face, flicker with a reptilian intelligence.He’s got the answer to any question, for a price. But the price ain’t always greenbacks, baby. It could be a vial of that sweet junky nectar, a whisper…
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B Traven
They say the jungle holds its secrets close, whispers them only to the wind and the watchful eyes of the caiman. That’s the tale you spin, my friend, the yarn that sells. Here’s the real trick: forget the sweat and toil of hacking through the undergrowth, the fevers that sap a man dry quicker than the sun. A man with a smooth…
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Tijuana Donkey Show
The internet, for all its bluster about connection, is a land of empty signifiers – a million flashing neon signs advertising a product you don’t need and an experience you can never truly have. The internet’s a goddamn circus of flickering signs, a kaleidoscope of data vomit that paints a picture as real as a…
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