The Window of Perception Are The Doors To The Soul Or Something
I sort of want to start a band called Girls Looking At Puppies,
it would sound like Arthur Russell playing in a garbage can.
But I don’t even have a watch.
Buying the Sunday Times was a waste of money ($6!)
because I simply don’t have it (the time).
Sometimes I wonder what it will be like in inner space.
But then I close my eyes and wish I could remember being born.
A couple weeks ago (or so) I saw Kurt Vile play solo – completely acoustic, without his drum machine and electronics and stuff, or else some backing band – and thought it pretty much was (vile, that is), but then the dudes from Woods played the last song or so with him. Some guy said, Thank gawd. And I said, I know right, we need some drugs or drums or something, something with a D, death maybe, I don’t have time for this crap, it’s 2010, we can make any sound and do anything and we’re still doing this? I don’t get it. He said, I guess I shouldn’t have said that so loud. I said, Fuck that, there are way too many positive people in the world (by which, of course, I meant the world in which people pay $16 to see someone play an acoustic guitar at you, which is something I don’t usually do). And he said, Oh I agree completely dude. So I said, This stuff reminds me of Dylan, basically is what I’m saying. And he said, I think it sounds more like the Boss. I agreed, Unfortunately, I said.
I used to stare out the window all the time,
but now I don’t really care what’s going on outside,
because I live in a temperate climate with a sunny microclimate.
I’ve decided today is the day I will have a friend cut off my rat-tail in Dolores Park.
Now I need to find a lawn chair. Maybe a lawn mower would be more appropriate.
from The Doors of Perception
by Aldous Huxley
From the books the investigator directed my attention to the furniture. A small typing table stood in the center of the room; beyond it, from my point of view, was a wicker chair and beyond that a desk. The three pieces formed an intricate pattern of horizontals, uprights and diagonals – a pattern all the more interesting for not being interpreted in terms of spatial relationships. Table, chair and desk came together in a composition that was like something by Braque or Juan Gris, a still life recognizably related to the objective world, but rendered without depth, without any attempt at photographic realism. I was looking at my furniture, not as the utilitarian who has to sit on chairs, to write at desks and tables, and not as the cameraman or scientific recorder, but as the pure aesthete whose concern is only with forms and their relationships within the field of vision or the picture space. But as I looked, this purely aesthetic, Cubist’s-eye view gave place to what I can only describe as the sacramental vision of reality. I was back where I had been when I was looking at the flowers-back in a world where everything shone with the Inner Light, and was infinite in its significance. The legs, for example, of that chair – how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes – or was it several centuries? – not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them – or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for “I” was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were “they”) being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.
Video by Shana Moulton
Tags: Aldous Huxley, arthur russell, inner space, kurt vile, mescaline, monsanto is going to kill us all, second life, shana moulton, singer-songerwriters are irrelevant when you have computers that paint abstract pictures of hotdogs, stephanie davidson, the long now