SONG OF THE DAY: Diamonds & Pearls (kudzu'd)

I have a ghost in my house that either just loves music or used to be a DJ or some shit, and they (I don’t know the gender of ghosts) sing in this low pitch sweet melodious voice that sounds like an angel from a dragging record. And it used to be the ghost was outside my head when they were singing, but somehow, being a ethereal spirit, they seem to be partially inside my head when they sing now, but only when I’m in the house, like they’ve got a sound system (furthering my “they used to be a DJ” theory) and they wired my skull into the system, but when I’m not here, I’m not connected. This is probably more common than people realize, as the whole “ear worm” theory is akin to this, and I made that connection because I thought I had gotten the Grateful Dead’s “Loser” as an ear worm, where I was always singing it or hearing it my head. But then I realized it was the probably a DJ ghost who got it in my head, because they’re always singing, “I can tell the Queen of Diamonds by the way she shines.” It just plays in the house and my head all the time, throughout the day, and when they hit that warble singing they do, the way it bounces around the far corners of upstairs on the opposite side of the house while simultaneously playing inside my head, I don’t know man, it’s a type of stereophonic that we ain’t made audiophile equipment to replicate yet.

SVM4C B3RR13S V0LVNT33R...

sumac berries volunteer 
to watch over old hotel 
full of abandoned vagrants 

SONG OF THE DAY: Sitting in the Park (kudzu'd)

One creepy thing (done by slow creep) that has happened over the course of the past decade, at an accelerated rate the past couple, is the loss of public spaces. At a federal level, this is done out of pure greed (exploitation of natural resources being considered more important than everyday motherfuckers enjoying collective space). And at the localized level, this is done as reactionary fear of homelessness, and rather than helping people that ain’t got houses have some houses, getting mad at them for not having houses and ending up somewhere out in the open, together, as the human has always tended to gather. Charlottesville, which I live near, is about to clear out a homeless encampment by Free Bridge because it got too out in the open with itself, rather than hiding in the margins. Local business owners complained, and like that federal level shit I mentioned before, the rights of dollar bills are always gonna trump the rights of human beings in what America has become (where it thinks somehow that a Creator of All Things in The Universe has specifically blown a kiss at us, which is some weird ass shit to believe when you consider the immensity of the Universe, and how long even the Earth has had people and governments and civilizations and how young the United States still is).
But I’m writing these thoughts on a Sunday afternoon (word to A Lighter Shade of Brown), and I ain’t trying to complain about *waves hands around at the current cultural vibes* All This. Let’s keep it positive, and practical. There’s still public spaces – parks that are local, state, federal, and even spaces that are abandoned by the industrially minded propped up by their dollar bill stacks, and all these spaces are perfect for occupying with lounge. To occupy with lounge is to take your asses there and be leisurely about it, rather than confrontational, where you’re cooking out or throwing horseshoes or walking on a walk path or practicing free throws on a basketball goal of various conditions. Get a pick-up game of soccer going, or really, cooking out is underrated as fuck. Cooking food in public, having sides spread out on picnic tables, folks gathering to eat and talk and enjoy some time out in the randomness of public… it instills good feelings in your soul. And in fact, I’d suggest maybe we need to be militantly leisurely, still keeping it non-confrontational (because the assholes who have poisoned everything with their Culture Wars love a confrontation), and just cook out all the fuckin’ time, everywhere. Old soul is great for the Bluetooth, but I ain’t gonna be mad at different choices, because a public gathering with food really puts a genre to the real test. Cumbia, reggaeton, classic country, old school… all that shit sounds GREAT in that type of environment. Pop country, viral rap, radio pop… all that type of stuff feels way out of place in an open and leisurely public space, because all those genres are manipulated and engineered and massagers of mental algorithms.
Damn, I got sidetracked complaining about the vast conspiracy of interwoven yakubian tricks again. Suffice it to say I suggest we all just go sit in the park, and try to get our Park Time data (which we’ll have to guesstimate since no data is captured) up to our Screen Time stats, and then beyond. I truly believe when we’re all sitting around at the park more than we’re sitting around on our phones, then everything will be better. Of course, you might be scrolling your phone at the park, so that Venn diagram starts to overlap, but still… build up the Park Time minutes, cut back on the Screen Time minutes, cause grills to make good smells floating through the air, and we all get to practice making large batches of our favorite sides more, too. Shit man, it’s win win win. And on top of all that, we’re all already gonna be in those spaces, so the assholes will think twice about kicking everybody out and privatizing it all into a metaphysical wood chipper that spits out dollar bills, but only for a small handful of greedy bastards. I bet them motherfuckers don’t even know how to grill up leg quarters on a firepit. Those useless fucks.

TH3 P30PL3'S DR34MS FLY1NG 4T...

the people’s dreams flying at 
half staff, in deference to 
the red and blue whitefaces 

B33N S34RCH1NG F0R 4 R41NB0W...

been searching for a rainbow 

in the most basic cities... 

life’s so damned complicated 

R3V3L4T10NS 4PP34R T0...

revelations appear to 
those with whole universes 
hidden within their neurons 

SONG OF THE DAY: Evolution (kudzu'd)

I was walking yesterday in a place I barely knew by car, and hardly by foot at all, and it was hot enough that I was sweating from the inside out before I even hit the outside with 50 steps. There was plenty of human developed concrete gridlocks, but also still plenty of greenery to various stages of wilding out mixed in, and man them southern humidity cicadas were KICKING. That is a sound and a half right there, one that sampling and programmed beats according to time metrics just can’t really recreate well because it has that innate as fuck crescendo and descent back into momentary silence before popping back up little by little. I always wonder about the psychology of the different parts of the cicada chorus. Are there little bugs bound to start that chirp up early as fuck, and the ones who bring it back out of silence first? Why does it go down? What disruptors cause the collective volume to drop like that? I was thinking about all this as I walked through, when really I wanted to sit down there, in the shadiest but still too damn hot spot I could find, and just vibe out for three to four generations, and acquire more understanding of the how and why of cicada knowledge. I don’t speak their language so I assume it would take at least one generation just to begin comprehending their sounds at a basic elementary level. Then again, what the fuck do I know? I’m just a self-ordained primate polluted by egotism of false individuality.

F1ND1NG C0MF0RT 1N SH4D0WS...

finding comfort in shadows, 
letting disappearance hide 
my actual existence 

N4TVR4L B0RN L0S3RS KN0W...

natural born losers know 
how to bluff their way into 
those long dark nights of the soul 

SONG OF THE DAY: Riding High (kudzu'd)

This track was a Top Ten R&B track in 1978, and the title song off Faze-O’s debut album, and came to my consciousness because it was one of them old school funk songs that DJ Screw loved to throw on a grey tape from time to time. As the internet digitized all those old grey tapes, it got mistakenly labeled as Rick James, not Faze-O, so for years, when I bumped this on an old eyephone turned into retro eyepod due to it being obsolete as a smart phone already, the yakubian data contained therein always acted like it was Rick James playing this song. At some point somewhere over the past decade of my life, I came across a 45 copy of the Faze-O original, I grabbed the fuck out of it. A clean copy, too. Since then, Galaxy Sound issued an “edit” which is new-fangled talk for bootleg, and I got that too, but I still play the original whenever I’m doing a slowed down set of Screw’s favorite old funk jams, like this, “Don’t Stop the Music” by Yarborough & Peoples, “I’m Comin’ Out” by Diana Ross, and others I ain’t thinking about right now, I go with the old dusty original, always. I’m pretty old and dusty myself, and ain’t nobody making no edits of me. But this song is such a sweet banger of a track slowed down.
FYI, whenever I write about one of these 45s I’ve ripped, I find some old ass footage somewhere to make a video for the background, rather than using automated bullshit. This is just some old history cartoon I found on archive.org, and I always pink/purple neon out the color aesthetic, and throw that Southern Gothicc Futurism tag at the bottom. Layers upon layers of nonsense processes, that nobody ever sees or knows about, just like Screw slowing down his 4-track recordings into a Maxell dub deck. I love a good chaos agent of creative bullshit. And even in the age of artificial intelligence, us chaos agents will always keep riding on a higher vibration than the minimalist predictable output that comes out one of those things. To create fucked up shit is to be godly; to type prompts into a computer is to be a reactionary dullard. You might love how some of the shit you’re throwing at the wall is sticking, but you’re still just throwing shit at the wall.

4NG3LS W41T1NG F0R N0TH1NG...

angels waiting for nothing, 
banished to back streets while the 
devils click at abaci 

SONG OF THE DAY: Wild Style Theme Rap No. 1 (kudzu'd)

The power went out the other day, right at 5:30 or so, after a big thunderstorm blew through. As it got twilight, I laid on the screened in back porch bed and vibed to the quiet. No riding mowers buzzing around, no compounded hums from the electrical wires buzzing in all our homes and overhead… just a deep, chill, settled down quiet. The folks two doors down got a generator and generally they get it fired up, but for whatever reason, they hadn’t yet. And being all the shit in the fridge was gonna be okay for a little while, made me wish we had deep quiet like that every now and then. My house is never that quiet when power’s running to it.
Of course, by the next morning, them folks had their generator running, and so did someone else, and people had begun panicking to get back to normal. I liked it still (still). It was true wild. Often times, we as humans use “wild” to mean out of order, or lacking the expected order, so we assume that means chaotic and bad. But this wild was just a deeply peaceful silence. And other times, shit we call “wild” is just seeking joy or happiness or living human lives by a different set of inspirations and motivators than what is considered “normal”, which honestly ain’t even normal so much as what we’re collectively trained to think like. Wild style ain’t necessarily bad, or chaotic; it’s just different than the established order to things, and usually unwanted by those in control of the established order. But them power dudes got the vast system of glorified extension cords humming again, and I could quickly enough poison my wild stream of consciousness with trending algorithms and flat world realities again. I was wondering about how my stream of consciousness would flow in true wild, not tethered to or trained by all this bullshit my whole goddamn life.
I guess we’ll never know. Or we already do and don’t like the answer. Or aren’t allowed to accept it.

TRVTH SCR1BBL3D 3V3RYWH3R3...

truth scribbled everywhere, 
but people have forgotten 
how to read what’s obvious 

MY STR34M 0F C0NSC10VSN3SS FVLL...

my stream of consciousness full 
of manufactured desire... 
trying to let that shit go 

M0ST M3N B3 F0RG3TT1NG TH3Y'R3...

most men be forgetting they’re 
primarily primates, with 
a lack of self-awareness 

B3Z3LS 0F W1SD0M...

bezels of wisdom buried 
in margins, still highlighted 
by esoteric vagrants 

SONG OF THE DAY: Some Woman's Bedroom (kudzu'd)

An interesting (to me) aspect of U.S. American culture is how the path becomes off the beaten path which then becomes forgotten and perhaps demolished and renewed in an attempt to regain that euphoric newness. Downtown Norfolk, and Norfolk itself, gets lost in the larger bubblings of “The 757”. But a lot of sub-culturally historic shit went on down there. In terms of tattooing, Cap Coleman came to Norfolk around 1918, the downtown Main Street of Norfolk was one of the more wild and wide opened places in the country, and definitely state of Virginia. His tattooing shop set up and was a mainstay there for decades, spreading tattooing worldwide through the sailors that would (and still do) get stationed in Norfolk.
Not far from there, first up Church Street, but later right around the corner on Granby, Frank Guida operated a booming record store, specializing in all music. A Sicilian who grew up in The Bronx, he had history singing in Harlem night clubs before coming to Norfolk, so he was an avid supporter of jazz and R&B music, and in fact, got involved in the music scene, and helped grow what would become known as the Norfolk Sound. Primary creative force behind that sound was Lenis Guess, who started his own label and began promoting and managing his own work as well as others. He had his hand in a bunch of great music, either as songwriter, performer, or recording engineer. Eventually, he moved to New York City, as most folks building scenes “off the beaten path” are tempted to do, trying to find the fame they seek in life. But Guess never got the props he should’ve gotten. A couple retrospectives have come out in recent years, including a 45 box set called The Norfolk Sound, put out Soul Jazz Records in the U.K. This is not from that box set, but an independent single, seemingly released as part of Guida’s label Legrand Records, back around 2000. The copy I got (can’t remember where, but it was in physical person, and I remember being stoked as fuck to find it) had plenty of scribbles, with some Xes on the B-side, “Some Woman’s Bedroom” with a note saying to not play on the air. That made me think it was older than it likely was, but who knows? Who the fuck knows? Lenis Guess passed away in 2021.
U.S. highway 460 begins down in Norfolk, and these downtown spaces used to be the eastern terminus of this formerly major highway, long before the interstate system was built. I know much of 460 well, to this day, from The 757, up through where I grew up Southside Virginia, with a bunch of my family including my dad and grandparents buried in a cemetery right along it near Rice. And I’ve driven that road slowly but happily avoiding the interstates, down to Roanoke and Southwest Virginia, on into West Virginia, many many times over recent decades. 460 still goes all the way to Kentucky, almost to Indiana, and before a 1976 decommissioning, used to go through the crazy spaces of southern Indiana and Illinois, all the way to East St. Louis, before terminating at the Mississippi River.
Conceivably, you could still piece together that path, from the Mississippi at East St. Louis, looking across at the Arch from the casino they built that’s supposed to resurrect that particular dying space (but hasn’t yet). And you could plod your way along these forgotten and abandoned paths, all the way through the southern Midwest (a strange place, for sure… the land of death matches), on through the heart of Appalachia, into Virginia, through all the less glamorous and non-prestigious parts of my home state, all the way back to Norfolk, not quite to the Atlantic, but right there at Ocean View Avenue, where the Chesapeake Bay serves as a poor man’s Atlantic Ocean anyways. I’d actually love to do that trip, slow as molasses, to allow the deep vibrations of all that remains, despite us calling much of it abandoned. It’s never abandoned, so much as what’s left behind ain’t what the people in charge believe is important. Fuck them.
When I play this song slowed down, those vibes start to buzz in unseen ways, like cicadas of the soul, and the Born to Lose Thunderfoot tattoo on my shoulder starts to throb, spreading into my chest, I guess where the heart would be since it leans that way a little in actual physiology. Humans ain’t ever been wholly symmetrical. But when I’m playing it in the right conditions, I get to throbbing in my Born to Lose heart zone, and I remember how much has been forgotten, in the name of keeping everything bright and shiny and new. And I remember how much all that old shit is way more important than whatever is being trended into my consciousness right now. There’s far more truth in dust than shine. That’s always been true.

SONG OF THE DAY: Evil Ways (kudzu'd)

I came upon an abandoned warehouse full of thick wood scraps, a few miles off the beaten path but still along the iron path, which don't run quite so much these days. I figured this was a sign from the church of level track, so I been making signs with them scraps. I can only haul so much off during each pilgrimage, but I been bringing 'em home, priming 'em up with scrap can paint from my Manifesting Wilderness Spirit homies, then painting Mark 10:25 on each of 'em, and nailing them to trees here or there, where it feels important to remind folks, but also where ain't nobody with a legal eyeball bearing down on me. John 3:16 gets all the roadside attention, and it's definitely a great line. But what with all the prosperity gospels proliferating like kudzu through the foundation of American institutions right now, as a society, we definitely done lost sight of Mark 10:25. And I don't wanna spell out the verse's words, make it too obvious, because really it's like a hint left for the seeker, who then searches it out and finds the ancient lesson that's always allegedly been part of our cultural foundation, but ain't nobody paid attention to this bezel of wisdom since the days of Reagan. That warehouse in the middle of nowhere ain't gonna run out of wood no time soon, and I ain't gonna run out of fingers willing to applicate paint, and inshallah I hope to scatter many many more along familiar 434 roads, and more and more in 540, 804, 276, 304, 681, 252, 301, and 336 forays, as my life conditions permit. I don't dare wander too close to the 202 heart of false idolatry; I ain't strong enough. But the more Mark 10:25 marks I can leave can hopefully cause reflection by folks headed in that direction. We all do what we can, when living right, to try and help the world be as beautiful as it is supposed to be.

SONG OF THE DAY: I'm Just Your Clown (kudzu'd)

When I attempt to calculate where I’m at standing next to the pyramid of abstract numbers stored inside Yakub’s fingerprints, to contemplate if my class transition was strong enough in two-thirds of a generation to be able to “retire” like they do on the TV shows, it looks iffy at best, which to be honest, is much better than most of my folks have known. When you become the first generation seemingly with some work and paycheck stability, America reminds you it’s a carnival game, and the carney lenders and zero percent interest havers and all them types start yelling at you, because capitalism desperately wants to break us all down to zero before we die. But I’ve known sleeping outside normal walls, and I ain’t gonna live what’s left of my life afraid of what could go wrong, even if the con is set up to go exactly that way. I never did get a chance to ride trains, and though our American world ain’t really geared the same ways it was a century ago, I can stand at a busy intersection around a big town’s skirt, and cast those cardboard sign trotlines, to panhandle my way through a day. It ain’t nothing new. People like me been waiting for nothing for as long as they sewed white stars into a blue fabric sky that was far more mythology than reality. Sleeping on the ground is just getting back to the Earth and returning a dust a little ahead of the reaper showing up, making that transition a little easier. If need be, I can be that funny little futuristic hobo clown with the sad face, camping in the woods behind the big box store that survived these conditions better than me, because the railroad tracks became interstates, and the town depot is a Wal-Mart. I wonder if the carnival game will become so abstract that they have historic strip malls as tourist destinations for folks to swim through the romanticized nostalgia of how easy life used to be, when all they had to do was drive their supersized vehicles through metastasizing suburbs to their favorite chains? Could the con possibly last that long? Maybe. There’s a whole lotta marks out here still.

SONG OF THE DAY: Lonely Tramp (kudzu'd)

I have been lazy about wearing deodorant every day, and now I’ve got a natural funk too strong for deodorant it seems. Like even if I clean my dirty ass up, and put on deodorant like I’m about to go to court or a job interview, an hour or so later, the funk starts to seep through. It’s also hot as fuck, plus wildfire smoke blowing in, so I’m sure it’s all connected. Who the fuck cares though? We live in a dystopia. Am I expected to smell like cyborg lavender sprouts during a dystopia? That seems unreasonable. But even if I’m assimilated by the false civilization of society to be ashamed of it, when I walk a good couple miles along railroad tracks in the soaring climate done changed heat, and get all extra stanky, and am carrying a great metal bucket I found along the tracks from them doing work, and have it filled up with exactly 8 clasps and 13 spikes (the magic number of both), that stank I have when I get back to wherever I started, I personally find it a pleasant stank. And when you read enough about the science of pheromones, you realize that’s probably not an unnatural thing at all. And yet, ultimately I am assimilated into society, so I rub the cyborg lavender sprouts under my arms even longer and harder, and hope nobody notices my raw humanity.

SONG OF THE DAY: Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get (kudzu'd)

Cut some grass today, for the first time in over a month. I know that’s so because the last time I cut it was the first time this year, and it was the end of May, because I was mad at global warming and the world in general that I had to cut grass before June got here. But the combination of it being an extreme drought and my own general laziness allowed me to not having cut it since, until earlier today. Even then, I only cut the back and one side because I didn’t feel like moving my railroad spike spray painting station (which is the leftover hulking frame of a patio table that a tree limb fell on and busted the top and all the glass) and the spray paint milk crate, nor did I feel like wrestling with the heavy ass entertainment stand that I put in the front yard, meaning to use as a shelf on the back porch (which is actually the front porch), but then I just left it out in the weather and it’s all fucked up now and probably even heavier, just standing on its side in abandonment. The cats use it as an outdoors scratching post though, and it helped me not feel obligated to cut the front yard today, too, which again, could be called laziness, although I also posit the theory that nature and Earth itself is kinda lazy, and if humans were lazier, the Earth would be in way better condition. Being productive is not natural, and in fact, we attempt to make the Earth be productive at a rate that far exceeds its natural cycles. We don’t even do this out of some moral imperative to feed everybody either; we do it for profit, and whatever can’t be sold is tossed into the trash, because it’s not profitable to risk any liability by giving it away for free to those in need. There’s an old book I love called The Right to Be Lazy, by a French socialist Paul Lafargue, who says in his opening salvo, “A strange delusion possesses the working classes of the nations where capitalist civilization holds its sway. This delusion drags in its train the individual and social woes which for two centuries have tortured sad humanity. This delusion is the love of work, the furious passion for work, pushed even to the exhaustion of the vital force of the individual and his progeny. Instead of opposing this mental aberration, the priests, the economists and the moralists have cast a sacred halo over work.” I’ve got this book somewhere upstairs, and I hope my eyeballs magically find it, going up there to fuck around on the turntables at some point the next few days. I’d like to put this in the bathroom, where all my best reading is still done (like any truly philosophically lazy person). Anyways, there’s more grass to be cut, always, just like there’s more dishes to be washed, and clothes to be folded, and bills to be paid, and lackadaisical hopes to be put on the backburner of life until you have run out of time and find out you have squandered all your idle moments chasing the carrot on a stick called productivity, hustle and ground to death, into the black flecks of pepper that flavor the inheritances of leisure lifestyles of the wealthy. Our wasted lives of labor allow them their leisure, and all we get is promises of an eternity we can’t touch while here on Earth to enjoy it. In other words, I’m not cutting the front yard today.

SONG OF THE DAY: Slow Down (kudzu'd)

I prefer slowed down music not just for aesthetic tastes, but as resistance to the business as usual status quo operational status of civilization, that has poisoned us all to believe we must “hustle and grind” ourselves like gears, and be as efficient as machines. Humans were never meant to be no fuckin’ machines, and we all got music innate to our heart, but we’re taught that it has to be commodity to be sold, but even then it was record labels or now streaming oligarchs who make the fattest slice of the pie, never the artist. And of course, because we are all fighting the riptides of capitalism that are always ready to tear us from whatever precarious stability we’ve managed to cobble together, at the first medical emergency or legal issue or really anything, and dump us outside of the system, penniless and hopeless, regardless of the efficiency with which we lived our life, and blame it on us – that it is our own fault we could not swim against the unforgiving riptides channeled against us. It’s all a pretty disgusting and slimy way to have built a civilization, so keep up whatever appearances you have to – make the devil and his supervisory staff believe you are hustling and grinding away, but fuck off at every chance. Don’t just embezzle back the minutes, STEAL BACK YEARS, and move slow as possible so that one lifetime feels like the benefit of three. And sure, I can already hear somebody complaining that why would they want to extend the horrors of existence, why would you slow time down to suffer the indignities of having to work within a system that doesn’t value you? Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Slow down, forever, and smash a motherfuckin’ clock whenever you can, especially one folks have had to clock into. One should never have to clock into anything. What a horrible phrase to have become part of our shared lexicon. So we slow it down to usher in Southern Gothicc Futurism, which moves as slow as kudzu, and invades the devilish master plans of the lords of the land with a thick contrary nature that says, “Fuck y’all, I ain’t doing shit.”

SONG OF THE DAY: Drums of Steel (kudzu'd)

My pops was a wizard of a small engine mechanic, cobbling things together that others couldn’t comprehend. His work truck (the truck from his work) was magical because it had a lift gate, and I used to be excited on the occasional times he brought it home, riding that hydraulic lift up like the little hick I was in the back yard. That truck always had ramps too, for the loading and unloading of riding mowers, to take back to the shop for repairs. I was thinking about this the other day, riding down the road, contemplating my neighbor, who can afford anything his brain desires, as he is the son of a banker, not the son of a small engine mechanic, though he portrays himself as a Working Man now, whereas I am a remote office worker who can’t afford shit it seems. (One time, when I explained an issue I was facing with a dead tree and hovering branches, his solution was simple – “Just pay somebody to come take care of it!”) I guess that’s the path – the son of a poor man hopes to transition classes and not have to work his fingers to the bone and break his body for paychecks; and the son of a rich man wants to occupy his idle life with seemingly meaningful work, so he cosplays as a blue collar workingman, running his own business(es). Nonetheless, I was getting myself mad at how the neighbor cut his half a acre yard with his zero turn mower like twice in a week, even though we’re in a drought, and he was just torturing that grass. Sure, mine is tall and clumpy and feral, and aesthetically displeasing to HOA ass hoes, but it is not dying from torturous manicuring during extreme dryness.
But I also got to thinking about the size of his mower – ridiculously oversized for his yard, even when you factor in the second home he has down the road a few miles, which operates as an event space. Similarly, he has a big truck, like many pretend workingmen of these days. But somehow, despite these trucks being twice as big as the ones from my memories of my pops, the bed is far less. You can’t fit a fuckin’ regular-sized riding mower in them anymore. So men justify to themselves bigger and bigger mowers, which can’t fit in smaller and smaller truck beds, but they are bigger and bigger trucks, which require trailers to move a fuckin’ riding mower around. It always clown car comical to watch some big ass modern existence truck hauling along a trailer with nothing on it but a little ass lawn tractor, albeit too big for the truck bed. So we have this false and unnecessary size thing going on, all of which just feeds the feeble psychology of all these little men who are struggling to find justification for themselves. And not only is it ridiculous, with the supersized truck payments that come with those vehicles (read somewhere about average new truck payment being like $1200 a month? Wtf?), not to mention the additional payments for whatever fuckin’ power equipment you’re cutting your little ass yard with, which probably is why dudes like my neighbor cut it twice a week, because they’re trying to get their money’s worth out of a bad financial decision, which doesn’t matter because they’ve got credit to burn.
And for clarity’s sake, I did experience class transition, so I have a car payment on a new car (2024 Corolla Hybrid) which I will pay until it’s paid off, and then drive until it dies. It’s only the second bank-secured car loan on a brand new car I’ve ever had in my life (and hopefully the last). It is one of the cheaper new hybrid cars you could possibly get. I also used my burgeoning fake ass credit rating carnival game allowance a couple years back to get a good riding mower, which I paid off early when a couple four-digit side hustles here or there came through. But I “worked” the system which ultimately works me.
I don’t really have anything important to point out here, other than we seem to be doing less actual things (like physical work, or moving actual objects with a truck itself, not requiring trailer add-ons and shit) with more monstrously sized mechanisms, all of which are way more expensive, and give us a false sense of dominating our environment. It’s all very feeble-dicked, in my opinion. A real man drives a piece of shit, and can cut grass with a borrowed scythe, or just doesn’t bother cutting it because goddamn it’s hot, and gonna be a desert here in a decade anyways. I often feel unnecessarily angry at these weird men who worship big things of false power, but there is no need in confronting them. You can’t reason with a poisoned brain.

SONG OF THE DAY: Casanova (kudzu'd)

Honestly, I think bringing back airbrushed overalls, which was an urban fashion trend from the early '90s, might be the most Southern Gothicc Futuristic fashion aesthetic possible. It is what we will wear on the work communities of Jupiter's Io moon. I have seen it in visions, many times over. My bloodline cleans the bottom 20 feet or so of the glass of the bubble, to keep the view out clear of space mildew from the intense humidity outside the dome due to volcanic nature of that satellite. They use drones to clean anything higher than 20 feet, but the drones don't do the same level of work as a hand washer, though it takes my bloodline I see these visions through a lot longer, because humans like to sit on futuristic metal boxes and stare off into space, contemplating the horrors of existing in the future, just like we do now. Io is Jupiter's closest moon, which actually is caught in orbit between Jupiter and two other moons of Jupiter, so has a crazy lunar effect, which you can feel living inside the workdome, hence all the sitting around contemplating shit while at work. You can read more about this 7th Workdome biosphere on the surface of Io in the handwritten manuscripts I dream read each night when I remember to wear my CPAP mask. I try to write as much of what I dream read as possible, but it's incredibly difficult for the conscious mind - tethered to this physical reality - to keep up with the sub/unconscious mind, freely exploring the infinite spaces of the innerverse. I do the best I can with the humble human existence I am given. I am thankful to the Creator for access to the visions. I recognize it as a blessing, though it weighs heavy on my conscious mind much of the time. That might be why I "zoned out" while you were talking to me the other day. I wish it was already the future and when I zoned out, I was wearing the airbrushed overalls I see my reverse ancestors wearing, in Io. Sitting there, staring off into space in those overalls looks pretty great, aesthetically.