What's in a title? A rose by any other name would still not be a title.

Have you ever had that feeling of not being able to write, despite desperately wanting to? Of having the words choke in your mouth, behind clenched teeth, longing to emerge via fingers or pen, or even through the vibration of vocal cords, but forever trapped? Of having phrases, sentences, entire fucking PARAGRAPHS of prose which needs to be given to Humanity via whatever your chosen medium, but finding that you really, simply, CAN'T?



What's it like? I'd love to know.




I really hope unto the good Lord in Heaven that someone else aside from me - just ONE is all i ask for - got some measure of a kick outta that. Does anyone even spot the fact that there's something glaringly ridiculous about everything i wrote up there? (even though there's truth to the sentiments i've expressed)

Oh well. Why even bother, remains the question. The only answer I can think of is "42", but i don't know how many of you out there will get and/or appreciate that.

Isn't it beautiful how my "I" changes so often? It'll be "i" for fifty sentences and then someone in my mind a little neuron flips a switch and i remember the existence of the Shift key. Voila! up pops "I". its rather amusing in its utter randomness, really. Makes you sit back and wonder. How much of what we do is instinctive, and how much is more coherent, concious action?
Now I know, I know, dont everyone start calling me mister original and startlingly brilliant thoughts guy or anything. This isn't groundbreaking Freud's-descendant shit we're talking about. It's just something rather interesting to talk about. (Dont you just hate it when you get "thing" and "ting" together in the same sentence? Let me re-word that) Its just an issue of passing interest with which to conduct a conversation not involving any of the variously overdone topics, for example sports, politics, or the exact population of gay whales left in the world, and how to save them.




Come dance and sway and sing with me
We'll spin around so crazily
Dream and see what we believe
Around the river Rhine.
In time we'd maybe paint in blue
"Not neglecting other shades" say you.
Yes, our palette must be large, 'tis true
Else mine easel shalt be plain as thine.






Don't touch us, for we are the new, the extreme, the never-seen-before. Obscene, you may call us, and yes, that may well be the case. But is a baby not obscene, when, emerging from its mother's womb, it is yet covered in the muck and grime of its earlier quarters? Such obscenity is the stuff of Life, the very warp and weft of the fabric that makes the New from the unravelled threads of the old. And so are we, emerging out of the comfort of childhood, shedding off the accumulated debris of our twenty-or-so years of life, about to become and indeed to REPRESENT the new.
True, in time our turn will come, and we will be brought low and pounded into the dust. Far be it from us to go lightly into the gloom of eternal night, either. But for now, move back and let us live. Live, yes, with the vivacity of Alexander and Cauis, with the pomp and opulence of Byzantium, with the glory of Charlemagne. Don't touch us, for we are something fresh. To get too close would be to scorch yourself with the heat of our entry into this world, the utter exhilarating rush of our arrival. To examine us overly close will blind you, and looking through film won't help either. Don't touch us, for we are beyond you.





Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You