Sonic Youth Gossip - post comething completely irrelevant!

Faces, taken off and passed around. drawn out of a hat. who am I and when was that, when it began? Am I woman, am I man? Will I see the master plan, or masturbate with my own hand, as ruin falls upon the land, naught I can do with my command, for my command is fairly bland, and won't impress anyone. It's not fun, I'm on the run. From myself, chasing health. Flee from wealth for mental health. Take a rest and just chill out. Scream and shout, but don't just pout. Let it all out. Let it float to the surface of your being. Who am I and does it even matter? We are all and all in one is us, ever expanding ourself outwards in different guises, all part of the same thing. The eternal champion takes many forms. The multiverse harbours infinite variations of the same thing, which is all we really are. All part of the machine, a cosmic dream. A cosmic cog-wheel. A guitar strum from the amplifier of the cosmos, taking a small sound and reverberating it across limitless time and space, multiplied. Touch me and I touch myself, not in a perverted way, but it's the truth, for you are I, and our offspring are us, and we are them, and I am you, and we are anyone ever born and ever yet to be. Life does not begin with birth. Life never ended in the first place. We were always alive, since the beginning if life itself, moving onwards into the future until it ceases. Life is all one thing. And parts of it die off. Subdivisions of the living essence of our planet known as individuals, or herds, or societies, or species, but life itself, the important thing, lives on. Single celled organisms to the most complex human brain, it is all created for the benefit of the survival of life. Either we'll learn to preserve life, or die off as an evolutionary dead end, a cruel mistake and a joke played by the hypothetical gods upon the planet. Who are we and who are you and I? We are life itself. We are inanimate objects, molecules and atoms, arranged in a specific order, and a collection of specific chemical reactions between these elements. A self-perpetuating system of nothing but motion and creation, endlessly agreeing to create itself anew in unique variations on the theme. Music. What is that but sound taking on a life? Recombining rythms, melodies, harmonic elements and structures, timing, to create a pleasing sound, recombining, endlessly in loops, cross-pollenating with itself and with other distinct groups of sounds to create something new and unique, always more than the sum of its parts, these parts themselves infinitely recombinable? Sound and music is the ultimate extension of life into the abstract. Nonsense makes perfect sense when put together next to reality, the reality of our absurd existence. We strut and fret our hour on the stage, following rules we created for ourselves, arbitrary laws we follow to be liked and approved by others. But the only true heroes are the rule-breakers. Those who defy. Those who defy the false logic we've built up for ourselves, the structures of rigidity in behavour which have no basis in actual human perception of aesthetics, of what is good or what is nice or what is appreciated by others. Nothing has a basis in anything, besides itself, when it comes to certain things. And it has to end, the classification of people into different categories, genres of humans creating genres of music, because we are all one, and that's a simple fact. Wether from the garden of Eden or from the plains of Africa, we come from the same source, and regardless of all the permutations of the human species and social behavours, we are all part of the same thing, and able to recombine to create new and wondrous behavours, and lives themselves. New races have yet to exist. Or, rather, we have yet to recombine the races into a sea of differences, with each human of an unique heritage unmatched by others, undifferentiated yet unique. Everyone is themselves, yet all a part of the one sea of humanity, the one God is all of us put together, the multiple aspects of Man itself. We are Man. We live to feed and clothe and entertain one another. We live to feed and clothe and entertain ourself. We are humanity ourself. Singular. We are one, and that is all. Drumming to a different beat, each of us, to create the ultimate complexity of polyrythms and syncopation, louder than anything, pure, vibrations shaking reality out of its socket, at once both infinitely fast and infinitely slow, never ending, and never beginning. That is how it was in those days. The hippy days. Coolio, daddy-o. Shiggity-do wap. Wippity wap zang bop zoink! I'm a fly donkey, and ain't no one gonna rag on my jive. Flip out and have some fun. Make sense, make nonsense, make dollars and sense. Paint your fence. Yellow and blue and pink, every colour and the kitchen sink. Blink, wink, and you missed it all. The big bang, the beginning of the universe, the midde, the death, and again, here we are, around another loop of cosmic beginning and deconstruction. Harmonics sounding on the twelvth fret. Screaming feedback, yellow noise sooths the mind. Yellow sunshine music light, sonic light, shining bright on through the night. On an endless highway we roll at night, across the desert. In hopes of finding the bright yellow light at the other end of night, maybe in another life. Driving through the empty wilderness of nothing. Nothing but the road and those on it. The cars and trucks that pass us by on occasion. The occasional gas station and diner. We ride along through the days on the endless highway, it's twists and turns meandering around the obstacles both real and imaginary. A canyon here, a mirage there. Riding across the endless desert, ever heading for the far horizon, beond which we have no telling of what lies ahead. Only hope is to hope the map is right, maybe ask for directions, if you know where you're trying to go. Who knows if you'll get there in the end? No one. But you'll get somewhere. Or keep on trying. Very few places to stop in the desert, but people do try. Some are successful, others, not so much, and they're never heard of again. No communication in these deserts. this long and winding road, that continues on into the unknowable horizons of distant futures. In the desert, all we can hope for is to find a good radio station broadcasting in the desert of our existence, and the temporary companionship of our fellow travellers we pass on the highway. And the hope that we don't blow a tire while driving alone, because it's twenty miles to the nearest service center, and no one wants to stop for a stranger out here.