Chicken Lady – No Not That One

Had a long drawn out dream last night, revolved around trying to hang out with a group of friends I don’t have in real life. Not interesting, but there was this amusing side bit. I did some mild violence to a chicken, you know, just playing with it. I forget how, like it grabbed my finger by the beak and I shook it or something. Anyway, a huge amount of its feathers instantly fell off.

I didn’t feel too guilty because I know they can grow back and I knew the injury was more a matter of the beast’s surprising fragility than my own malevolence. There was fleeting moment of shock replaced by amusement.

Then I was walking through the halls of the same building – I forget where or why – but I saw a conventionally attractive young lady talking on her cellphone with a friend. She was talking about how her feathers are more sturdy now, but they used to “shed like a bonfire” when she was younger. I knew then that she was a chicken. Not like the lady in the gross Kids in the Hall skit, but just a pretty girl who is somehow also a chicken.

She noticed feathers twirling around the corners of the hall and touched her hair. I knew she was nervous that they came from her – that she was indeed still shedding like a bonfire. But I tried to set her mind at ease, by telling her that it came from the other chicken. That’s all.


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Lil’ Nas X? More like, Lil’ Naw. X.

All I can say is that my life is pretty
plain. I like to watch the puddles gather
rain. That’s the opening lines of a lovely
idyll by Sir Basil Exposition of England.
Life should be about gentle tedium, safe.

Frankly, when people like this Nas X character
open up their mouths and use them to lick devils,
or themselves, through the power of CG satanisms,
licentiousness runs rampant through our society,
sowing the seeds of ruination. I can’t stand it.

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Tempo in the Soundtrack of Our Lives

This morning as I was working, two songs rotated in my head:  Spy in the Cab by Bauhaus and Torn Between Two Lovers by Mary MacGregor.  It wasn’t about the lyrics – I’m not torn between lovers and Spy in the Cab is beyond meaningless.  But the tempo matched my mood.  Songs will sometimes pop into my head based on the speed I’m operating at.  If I’m trying to do something fast-paced, it might be Jesus Built My Hotrod by Ministry feat. Gibby Haynes or Birds by The Butthole Surfers.  Sometimes other qualities of the song will enter into it, like a song with lurching or broken rhythm or breathless vocals may pop into my mind if I’m tired or sick, like Going to a Go Go by The Miracles or LA Blues by The Stooges.

Do songs randomly pop into your mind?  How do they connect to how you’re feeling?

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Another Thing

Night before last I dreamed I was doing lethal kung fu against Amazon PR assassin clones, like these 10 foot tall Bloodborne-looking dudes and some Ghost in the Shell ladies.  I could fly kinda badly.  It wasn’t a cakewalk but it made me feel like a badass in my lil scenario.  This morning I dreamed I was involved in a mob fight and when the dust cleared the room had been stripped to a concrete floor and random plastic sheets.  Muppets that had been partially embedded in the concrete stirred.  As Kermit stood up, plastic sheets stuck to his back and were dragged behind him, looking like angel wings.  It was very poetic.  Also I had a reason I was trying to make sandals out of string cheese.

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What About Pillowfort?

Pillowfort was conceived, whatever else they say, as a tumblr knockoff that was supposed to be distinguished by having effective blocking to prevent people from having to catch nazi URLs on their dash every day.  They finally opened the gates – you don’t need an invite to get a Pillowfort account now.

But who’s using this?  Let alone the thing which it was meant to replace.  Tumblr has withered on the vine.  It’s still my only social media because sweet hell FB and Twitter are you kidding?  But there’s literally one tenth the traffic on my dash that there used to be.  Everyone is off to Instagram or Pinterest or who knows.

I tried to find something to follow on Pillowfort and it’s been a total waste of time so far.  Good for the tumblr sex worker accounts to have a new platform I guess, but that’s not what I’m on social media for.  Where are people hanging out now?  What’s happenin’ with the kids these days?

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Mortal Jelly

Humans are just piles of jibbly meat, highly derived structures propping up a primordial worm / digestive tract.  Our overdeveloped sensory processing node/brain wants something more.  In their earliest form, brains would have more basic info to process – dark/light, pain/satiation, things like that.  Is the human desire for a transcendant experience a misguided version of some kinda worm drive, wanting to move into the light inside the light?

Sometimes experiences feel like they’re touching on an abstract higher realm, like getting closer to god or transcendance or nirvana, whatever.  When I’ve felt this it’s usually from music or film, more rarely from physical experience.  It’s kind of like buzzing.  Like if your thoughts are all wave forms and they’re peaking.  Maybe transcendance is just your mind’s wave form hitting a ceiling, like a mistake in audio editing that causes a loud part of a song to turn into an obnoxious rattle.  We don’t like hearing that audio track, but if it had a sense of self, maybe it would feel pretty cool.

Anyway, listening to The Doors veers between wondering why you’re listening to this clownish nonsense and feeling like true magick is about more than just casting spells, maaaan.  I put my finger on the veins of the cosmos and find the pulse uncanny, retract.  Back to work.

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A Bad Dream

Content Warning: Gore, COVID

In my waking hours, I’m not concerned about COVID.  My household is fortunate to be able to isolate well, we live in a state doing better than most (though one of the worse cities in our part of it), and there’s very promising vaccine news floating about lately.  I think we can hold out ’til the stuff comes available, and while I can feel bad for victims, it’s not a very deep sorrow for me.

But apparently when I’m asleep it’s a different story.  I had a dream where COVID symptoms included hemorrhagic sores, open wounds, and plague-like swelling.  For unclear reasons the bodies of victims were in chopped-up chunks.  Still-living victims were burying the dead in mass graves at the sides of the road while the rest of us drove by.  There was blood soaking the ground in large patches.

India was having some success training animals like monkeys and wombats to help care for children with the disease, which was heart-warming.  I wondered in my dream if I should pay money to that charity, or if it would be better spent in helping research a cure.  I somehow ended up in an isolation cell with one of those plague children, which was sad and horrid, but I half-realized I was dreaming and was able to logic myself out – not fully awake, but to a previous area from the dream.

Somebody wondered on a previous post what a bad dream looks like to me.  This wasn’t the worst, but it was bad.

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Random Thoughts on Ethnic Stereotypes

The title of this post probably makes it sound like it will be more substantial.  No, this a Random Thoughts from Satan post, and not that deep.  I was just looking at the search “Hayden Christensen Movie Trailer” on youtube for laughs, and laugh I did.  But it occurred to me that in “Little Italy” he was essentially doing brownface.

As many people have pointed out, across the world there are varying definitions of white.  To a Persian guy in Iran, he’s white.  To a Berber in Egypt, she’s white.  It’s defined by having somebody darker than you, and usually further south.  So to some Germans, I expect, Italians are not white.  And by that definition, a Scandinavian Canadian with his hair darkened rocking a tan to flip pizzas would be doing brownface…  Although I found out he’s like 1/4 Italian, so *chef’s kiss* mama mia!  Uncancelled.

In all this I caught myself being amused at the cute ethnic stereotypes of the world, which is, I expect, not SJW kosher.  And yet, how can you not automatically be charmed by people with funny accents?  So cute.  One time I was in a basic English class at the community college, while I was reading aloud some depressing stuff I wrote, it prompted my teacher to say “My God man, are you a drinka?”

It was one of the highlights of my life, honestly.  He was so Jewish his name was Murray and he was from Brooklyn, where in the summers it was like a foinace, oy vay.  Freaking delightful.  I wonder, in places less mainstream blando Anglo-American, would my accent charm and amuse?

As an exemplar of the most over-represented culture on the planet, I kinda doubt it.  C’est lavie.  I’ll have to be cute in some other way.  Maybe my taste in shoes…

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Not a Bad Dream

Content Warnings: Surreal Violence, Death, Drugs, Prostitution, Deformity.

I had a dream I was Blixa Bargeld of Einstürzende Neubauten fame, though the rest of the band didn’t enter into it.  Me and some artist / drug friends were living in some kind of underground ruin over the course of a few decades.  In later years it also became a brothel and I was arguing with my best friend about allowing caning in the S&M action.  I don’t remember why I opposed it, but my friend the art pimp said we needed it to stay competitive.  The main points of action in the dream were when cops tried to raid us and it turned into big siege situations.  I killed a few cops in self defense and the defense of others, and somehow legally got away with it both times.  Those parts of the dream weren’t bad.  Later in the dream a sad prostitute with a elephant man-like skin condition and semi-liquid flesh started chasing me around and dividing like an amoeba, which wasn’t cool, but not as scary as it should have been.  I woke up to a day off from work, so not a bad time.

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