The Next

The soul sure as hell doesn't sell. We don't know whether it exists, or whether anything does for the matter. All we do is 'believe' in something, and damn right we're screwed if we don't. Well...why do we do what we do, and why do we do even when we don't feel like doing the do....and why do some of us never do...and stay out of the whole doing business while getting either laughed at....or hiding in wait for that elusive metaphysically stimulating cheeseburger? What happens? What is the 'next' then? Another construction, simulation, fabric, whatever you might call it, but eventually another artificially designated unit of time to suggest escape from the inevitable clutches of a dysfunctional past. God bless a certain Mr. Andrei Tarkovsky for those clutches....he decreed condemnation with his 'imprinted' glorification of the past...pretty much annihilating the essence of the present, and my future. Hell....that is complicated. You know what else is? Every second of your life when it isn't the life you dreamed of, or the life others dreamed for you...or thought you would dream. And you know it when that's that, you always do.

What then is my purpose of starting this meaningless endeavor in a meaningless world...umm...I mean the new blog? Respect?...Love?...Hello!...who let these words slip in?. Faith?....Hell no!....if I had faith I'd be living in salad bars and making love to a woman, and not a powerless computer monitor in the wee hours of morning. Existence?...don't remind me of it....I feel sick. Irrespective of the fate of my prick, I suppose I'm laying the next brick...contributing my bargain of the cement and mortar in constructing some universe for people to experience, deride, ride and wash their underpants in. Let's get a little academic here and brief through the virtual nature of my 'dysfunctional past'. There was....and embarrassingly is...an old blog carrying the 'story of the sand' somewhere on the world wide web. It's loaded with the grains of a loser cynic who sang paeans of love and longing and faith until for some smug reason he just became too darned lazy to write...and well...gave up the profession of an ordinary poet to become an extraordinarily ordinary filmmaker...i.e. if he still thinks he's one. The good news is that he has now evolved and matured into a comprehensively more ordinary thinker...with a lot of acquired social and cultural vacuousness to add to his pristine social perspective, which also involves persuasive discussions on Baudrillard, Jameson, politics and sexuality with supporters of extremely advanced and pacifist cultural outfits like the MNS and Taliban. What about his love and idealism and pain and longing and hope? He dreamed....waited....surrendered....eloped....hoped...hoped...hoped...until he awoke, broke, a joke, and way too doped. Good Morning Mr. Sandman, no world around, no right or wrong, good or bad, white or black, it's all a bloody blank, a blackboard being constantly scribbled with smaller chalks held by bigger hands. The bigger your chalk, the longer you walk. You can't do either?....just hope you can talk. Idealism be damned!

So...who am I?...the sandman?...the bricklayer?....the stalker?...a talker?. I am just a Hamlet lending my mind on free rent...unless of course I become popular....then I'll charge suite accommodation prices as rent for my left and right brain. Talking of which, I can already feel my brain getting fried in eggs, and I need to preserve them for breakfast. I shall conclude painting my first brick with an offer you can refuse if you've run out of patience, but if you are troubled by questions on the meaning of life and purpose of existence, I can guarantee you a space of ethereal nothingness, and a few Playboy Vids if spiritual enlightenment takes longer than you imagined. Maybe I'll write on films some day, let me make peace with literotica until then. No objectivity, no maturity, no self lacerating art, the swivel, the medicine, the bowel and the plain old fart. Good night people, and a good morning to all the politically correct innocents with testosterone injected rabbits in their cupboard. May you continue to despise, the pleasure of a juvenile sunrise.