The reality of society is saturated with inherent non-individualism. The individual is wondered at as if a zoo animal or novelty creature, not as a necessary tool for the development of new social constructs. As a culture, we see a constant recycling and intermashing of trends and social ideas due to the suppression of legitimately free thinking. It is within the boundaries of our human intellectual limits to conceptualize and deconstruct the artificial portions of our daily realities. As far as we’re concerned, thinking outside the box MUST take place within a bigger box. But can we define what makes up the bigger box? What taboo materials compose the shell of the biggest box?

In order to keep from being confronted by a steady stream of uncomfortable anti-ideals or thoughts produced in a “no-realm” or outside even the biggest box, we employ various types of social taskmasters and policemen. The explanations for these immutable presences are wrapped up in the idea that somehow the flow of human progress would grind to a screeching halt if these forces were not constantly playing upon our conscious (and mainly subconscious) aware-periods. What we consider to be culture can actually become our slave-master. Fashion, trend, media, social communication tools all work against us in order to keep us tethered to certain systems deemed “the most efficient” or stable. We create monsters when we allow our cultures to define us as individuals. We willingly allow ourselves to become sub-human in application.

Most likely, the only solution is a re-education in our true nature as humans and children of the Most High God. As believers, certain realizations are required of us. To know that we are Loved and to Love. To know that we have power over evil and disease, and can speak things into existence. To know that we have power over culture and society and that our place in it is defined by the deep new currents of Christ-self manifesting inside of us. Our true redeemed “selves” are present and fully that, but Christ is Lord over us. Our true natures are expressed through Him. Real communication is the non-verbal action of reinforcing principles. Our convictions manifest themselves in the working of our hands. Our new ideas must be allowed to see the light of day.

Lord, you know my true self intimately. I pray that you bring my self in You to the forefront of my existence. Let it be the only self I am identified with. Lord, allow me the grace to accept the rebuttal and pervasive fear of change and challenge in the world around me. Jesus, fill me with love and your glory, so that my presence and attitude may magnify your holy name and face. I thank you for making me a unique and beautiful individual directly to your specifications and in accordance with your will and plan. Lord, help me to remember that in times when I am not understood or accepted by my fellow persons in this life. Let Love flow from both places, and let those interactions only ultimately end in proclamation of your glory.

Today’s frustrations have spawned new words here. I get a decent amount of flack for being misunderstood or “too” this or that. Some popular adjectives are: overwhelming, intellectual, intense, too direct or “clear”, awkward, zealous, religious, old-fashioned, and/or on some level socially inappropriate. Lord, don’t let me be a stumbling block, but a witness. Father, provide understanding to all those around me. Provide me the understanding and humility I need to accept that I cannot change their responses. Amen.

I’m probably the last person in the whole world to see/blog about this video, but that doesn’t make it any less shocking. More shocking than the video however, is the horrifying amount of arguments over whether or not the police were within their rights to taser and arrest a student for asking somewhat incediary questions at an open college forum. Especially after respectfully THANKING Mr. Kerry (the speaker) for giving him the opportunity and for speaking.

In my opinion the essence of freedom is the ability to question authority, no matter WHAT those questions might entail. Mr. Meyer (the tasee) was within his rights under the 1st Amendment to ask the questions he did – they were straight forward and relevant to his political assessment and opinion of Mr. Kerrey. Government officials everywhere – WAKE UP and remember that you are ELECTED. Therefore your lives are subject to the scrutiny of your constituents and your candidacy is subject to the woes of public opinion. You are no longer regular citizens, free to have “time to yourself”. You are representatives of the populace and thus that much more responsible for any decisions you make whether personal or political. You are judged (or should be judged) based on what is perceived about your personal character. I will not stand with, support, or swear allegiance to a nation where a fellow constituent cannot ask bold, and difficult questions of a policymaker in office.

Furthermore for violence to be enacted against an already restrained student who verbally offered to leave the premises if the officers would “get off of him”, is simply unacceptable and ridiculous. A complete misuse of power and one more step toward fascism. Come on fellow citizens, fascism doesn’t just suddenly appear, it develops. It sneaks upon the unsuspecting and apathetic populace, pacified by false security and propaganda. And it can happen anywhere to any country at any time, if we don’t remember even recent history.

My advice: arm yourselves. Unplug from the tendrils of society. Block every move the government makes to usurp your rights and freedoms. Let’s rid ourselves of the neo-conservatives who strive to globalize us and fascize us. They aren’t conservatives at all, but agents of a bound world. They are motivated only by a lust for power. They are inherently un-American.

We do not need necessary illusions: We need Truth. Read your Bible. Read your Constitution. Stand up for yourselves and love your fellow man.

Ok. So I hauled out an old record I never really gave much of a thorough perusal today. I mean, I have a deep, undying love for the work of a one Matt Mahaffey. And you should, too, since you probably own something he’s appeared on, written, or put together. God forbid you actually own a Self record (watch out if you’re female). Anyhow, I decided it was time to really get into his self-released Feels Like Breakin’ Shit (1998) which is a somewhat thrown together collection of home recorded (home recorded for Matt is way above and beyond what comes to mind for most) b-sides and covers/humorous renditions of popular/overblown tunes.

It’s no wonder to me Mahaffey hails LA as his home town, just the idea behind the record has enough spit and snarl to send any over-pierced West Hollywood gutter punk running back to Brixton (or their uninformed perception of Brixton) and indeed brings me back to when I thought it was necessary to drink till I vomited and stick safety pins through my eyebrows for fun. Funnily enough, it’s pop NOT punk, but Matt’s got a way around that, too. He makes sure that his songs agitate like his idol Prince, keep the gummy-pop ears satisfactorily candied, but incorporates plenty of crushing buzzsaw synth and metal blade guitar lines to ignite the inner aggression that never goes away, unless it’s to wave signs at the nearest politikal rally. In effect Mahaffey repeatedly says, “Look, I’m louder, punchier, and just plain better than you. So fuck off.” And unfortunately for him, it’s this very nonchalant egoism in his music that simultaneously attracts and repels the listener, and has probably been the deciding factor in keeping him from the true widespread appeal and success he so desperately seeks.

Mahaffey may be one of the greatest pop composers of our time, there’s no doubt about that. He’s one of the most quintessentially under-appreciated musicians around. But his overbearing cynicism and glaring lack of humility hurt more than help his cause. Which is that we all pull our heads out of our respective bums and get with his scene. But does putting forth a mockingly perfected rendition of songs written by artists with sizeably smaller egos really deserve more than an honorable mention and coupon for tomorrow’s brunch?

But it’s good for a laugh, and that’s precisely as far as we should really take it.
As a huge fan of Mahaffey’s work I cannot wait for the day when he swallows his pride and finally delivers on the masterpiece his skills have always promised.

Songs:
“Titanic”
“Glued to the Girl”

You, quit being so damned over-dramatic.
And you, stop it with the make-up all ready. Every time I see you, you look like a less expensive whore.

Damage control, I say.

I absolutely hate wondering about the reality of reality. It’s always colored by our perceptions and experiences. Yeah, we all have benefit from have a unique outlook, but how do you master your personal outlook in relation to the outlooks of others. Sure, there are similarities, but you can’t tell what others are thinking. It’s not always written all over their faces. The dilemma is how to become more perceptive and less overt yourself. I’ve always wanted that sort of thing. An air of the mysterious. Or at least, a stance in the not-so-obvious. Am I predictable? Maybe, sometimes. Maybe I’m not at all, and my problem is opposite. Intimidation stems from lack of routine.

Does making others “comfortable” around yourself stem from allowing yourself to be dominated by the prevailing culture? If you’re synonymous with the framework, you’re more accessible and appealing. Develop movement prediction skills and you’ve got it made.
Make yourself predictable, but only in the sense that you adopt the traits of those who are “pushing the envelope of culture” in mass-favorable way. Does the ability to truly push the envelope of culture still exist or has culture itself been worn so thin that it is crumbling down upon us? A cyclone, a black hole, collapsing in on itself, repeating itself more and more often, uselessly reinventing/vomiting itself back into faux-existence.

New modes of communication double as new modes of manipulation and alienation. Manipulation by alienation and so on. I called a friend back tonight. He was obviously distraught over the lack of communication from others he’d lately received. His comfortable dosage of daily/weekly interpersonal influx had not been met. He was on edge. Confused. Suspicious of those whom he so recently had trusted implicitly as his friends. He asked me: “Did I do something wrong, you think?”How do I answer something like that? “I don’t think so.” What I really wanted to say was, “Why do you feel you deserve to ask that question?” What is it about society that fools us into the process of validating our existence through others. Everyone has a different, colored interpretation of us. Sure, occasional, constructive input is valid. But we are the only instrument of change in our own lives. Others provide certain input, we decide whether or not it is valid to our own reality, and we change accordingly.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

Is this thing on? Ahem. Alright then. Today we begin a new series of Scrutons entitled: “Wake up, It’s time to get Love Sick: Backbones of American Popular Culture.”

Someone recently brought to my attention something I’ll admit, I had spent some thought time on before – American popular culture is really just a one trick pony. For the most part. Some might say it was handed down from European medieval forms of entertainment, comedy and tragedy, which I suppose is even more ancient (Greek?). The stories that affect us are always coupled with a search for love, budding love, threat of love leaving – and the determining factor between comedy or tragedy – whether the love remains in the end. As a people we are obsessed with many things, but at the core (and even the supposed cause [sex/drugs/rock]) of our being there exists a poignant black hole. Sucking in, filtering, looking for a perfect love. The entire folk tradition of our nation is deeply entrenched in this basic human desire. The pain is almost unbearable. The crushing pressure to find some sort of love and companionship drives us completely insane.

It seems that as long as our ideals of earthly bliss continue to rest in the hands of others, we will continue perpetuating an already monstrously depricating system, willingly – even subconsciously at that. What is the motivation? Distraction? Where does this hole, this disconnectedness stem from? Ourselves and the culture we’ve created? How can one break free from the myriad of forces telling us we’re lonely, and that’s wrong, you have to find someone else to waste your life with, otherwise you’ll die, you just will, here’s how, if that doesn’t work try this, and this, start drinking (you’ll meet her at the bar), start smoking (people are attracted to smoke), go here go there, get rid of your face, get a new one, get new skin, get new clothes, get new smells.

This is an ancient issue with far reaching ties to all of us. It tugs our heart-strings and plays us like mournful banjos. But it inspires so much within us. It gives us a reason to live and die. It encourages creation and destruction. It decreases mundanity and colors our existence with flowers of mystery, exultation, misery, pain, and flowing peace. We welcome it like water from heaven. We stand still with eyes closed and a smile on our faces, hands outstretched, gallons of romantic goo sliming us from head to toe.

But with all of our feelers shifting and squirming in darkness, what do you we really connect with. We barely touch infinite, just for a second. Sparks fly. The moment is gone. Cold and dark inside, isn’t it?

Woosh. You’re on a park bench. The wind blows softly. Your hand tingles your face and neck a little. It’s not too hot outside. Sweat is very slowly congregating behind your knees. Sky swirls overhead. It’s fighting with itself. Rain or shine? Electrical epical battical. Go on. Stretch out, make yourself comfortable. Insect noise surrounds you. Like Dolby 1 million.1. Trees flutter and twist, long willows brush the ground. They are caressing the ground, you’re thinking, I want to be caressed. Music blossoms over the hillside. Tinkly blues from a long time ago, you think. It compels you. Get up, don’t be afraid. Give in to your curiosity for once, man. You come upon an old woman with a guitar. She sways hypnotically in the breeze. She causes the breeze? you think. She doesn’t. Be rational, man. I can’t! I’m in love. With some…thing. Some faceless beauty I have yet to meet; she could be anywhere, man, under this rock, behind this tree, in the parked car, seated in the cubicle next to mine twirling hair… Feel it now? He’s out there some where. That perfect man. The one who knows what you think you know. You’ve got a secret buried inside. It’s like a worm, it oozes about your heart. Heartworms. We’ve all got the heartworms, pa. We’re all going to die screaming. We’re all going to die alone.

Feel it now? Stop trying to put a pillow over its head for once.

Nice introduction. Thanks, dude.
The American heart, the American love song. Our study begins with Karen Dalton. She’s the lady over the hill (no age quip here). A member of what could be called the 1960’s folk revival, essentially she was an interpreter of song, only playing covers and standards, but filtering them through a unique and whimsical, meandering sense of time. And her voice. Her voice like yellowed pages of the old country newspaper. Like ancient daguerreotypes of dead family members. The rich aroma of the country girl with broken eyes, busted knuckles. She laments tenderly, but she is somewhere else. A disembodied voice. She’s possessed of love-sickness. Karen Dalton’s musical exploits are, in my opinion, one of the supreme apexes of American folk-romance ejaculations. Think of it like, the magma of emotion and heartache and the bleak dread of detachment all smelter away in the undercurrents of our hearts, finally erupting every so often through a self-sacrificing creative vessel. Her heart pulses and explodes into our ears. Sure, sex exists, but this isn’t about sex. Dalton has never heard of bullshit.