this is a radio show i’m hosting this season on CFRC 101.9FM, a community radio station in Kingston, Ontario. there are mp3s of past episodes up on the web space, and also some links to theologians i personally find rly interesting, if that’s yr type of thing. (it’s a music show themed on spirituality/religion). seems like what i just typed is incoherent, but hopefully what i’m trying to convey is adequately discernible to most human individuals. email me in capslock if ‘no’. thanx.∞
you’ve drowned. drowned so many times, you know deep down you belong on a craigslist ad: learn how to drown in just five easy weeks — beautifully and with utter grace.
the technique is really groundless. there are no absolutes. you have to be naturally good at it in your own individual way. there’s no other way around it, to be honest. drowning is a faith-system you confess to. it’s very intuitive. you either know how to drown or you don’t. the first step for most people involves embracing this kind of constrictive force about your torso. pretend it is hugging you as if it really loves you and considers you seriously enough as a potential romantic prospect — at least in that brief moment of embarrassed disorientation. when you are good at that, you have to get the sinking feeling right. it’s like this infinite drop into nothingness, right at the axis of your being — something like that. practice it a few times a day. you don’t really have to do anything. it’ll just happen to you and that’s all you have to do. just —-
and the constrictive feeling will begin to hug you so tightly, so lovingly that you’ll forget how to breathe. you’ll focus all you’re attention on absorbing that love at just the right angle. the tolerance is fragile. pay attention now. you don’t have time to keep fucking up. once you develop that skill set, you just have to incorporate the discrete drop to less than nothing that fills your entire selfhood. then you can experience paradox in all it’s lavishness — pain and nothingness — altogether in one breathtaking landscape.
if you practice long and hard enough and you’ll get ulcerative colitis — which is ultimately the goal. sit alone in your room and pour all your ulcerative colitis medication on the filthy carpet below you. this is to express how much you hate yourself. quickly pick up as many pills as possible in an embarrassed frenzy and start wiping them on the pair of jeans you haven’t washed in four months.
so, will it be cash or credit?
studying information theory rn. claude shannon voodoo.∞
Have you ever sat in the backseat of small sedan, full of human bodies wrapped in clothing and grass stains and dried lake water — and watched a face hovering this way and that, above the passenger seat up front, leaning back, and slightly rolling back towards you, slightly upside down, slightly smiling, slightly diagonal and askew, sliding closer, taking you in with a sweeping glimpse and a wide-eyed glint sheltered by the outline of long, dark lashes delicately brushed in immaculately spaced little strokes of black? Did you feel the kick of serotonin flood the receptors in your brain? Did it feel like something somewhere was falling of the edge of some cliff or steep hill, plummeting a thousand miles an hour, right through the dark of the Deep? Did you try really hard to fight it all back, to hold it all in, worried you’d find a stony bottom all too quickly, smash into thousands of pieces all over the cold, abrupt, cement flooring below? Feel chilling loss and abandonment and futility crackle over your once former self?
But then you pause — you take in the wind flowing through the half open window across the cabin, then let it all out slowly into the sunny haze around. Settle into those breathing exercises that therapist gave you, before sending you off and so subtly letting you know she had more fucked up people to attend to. If only you had enough time. Then you could prove to her how truly fucked up you really are. She’d sit there on her ergonomic office chair in her big leather boots, crying, convinced, regretting ever downplaying the overwhelming extent of your incredible fucked up-ness.
Your face is not the type that kicks shots of serotonin through the insides other people’s brains though, is it? It’s the type that makes people feel concerned. It’s the type of face that makes people ask, ‘Are you okay?’, when you are feeling completely fine. One is not to judge a book by its cover, but you are the obvious exception. Your face knows more than you do. It is the only of your possessions that has any ability whatsoever to express the existential crisis within you. Your brain sits blankly behind it, thinking, rationalizing, synthesizing, etcetera. Basically doing nothing. Your face is the only sensible thing. It realizes how fucked up you really are.