Keeping a journal
You're supposed to do it every day.
According to Tolstoy happy people are not as interesting as miserable people.
(somewhat crude translation from the translated Russian)
I'm having trouble dissimulating my own situation here, Really I'd like to crow about my success.
Never having made more than 24Gs in my dirty, bloody, working life, I still manage to live in a nice large house surrounded by trees, by the lake, with a great view of Paul Allen's ranch.
I still managed to accumulate a million bucks (more actually) of real estate that provides me a capitalist's income from supplying other people with a survival commodity.
I got a wife with a good job and her own fortune, I could be one of those men in a Jane Austen book who are not quite good enough for the upper crust girlies, and who'd want 'em
Or I could be a capitalist pig parasite sucking the blood out of the proles.
Or a feudal lord fleecing my flock of peasants.
I don't really have to give a damn about anything.
Not the SSO
Not Gerry Schwarz (I never could tell the difference between a good performance or a bad performance, anyway)classical music all sounds the same to me anyway.
I don't even know what a conductor does, really.
Or an "artistic director"
I don't have to give a damn about "human resources directors"
I don't have to give a damn about certain persons' traumatic pasts, even when they surface to destroy something I was trying to take seriously.
I don't need to care whether my "music" is worth a damn to anyone.
Or whether I have any "talent"
I'm alright, Jack.
I've done my best to fulfill any "obligations" to society. If "society" don't like me, society can buss my fundament.
"K 231" as Mozart once put it.
Not that I'm totally without sympathy for all the little people I float above.
It's more of a practical thing.
Why should I go to any trouble for a drowning person when all I'll get for it is punched out and maybe sued for some made up legal nonsense?
Why should I care about child abuse when it's main symptom is a belief that it's alright to abuse me in turn.
Why should I care about your laws when the main effect is to keep the price of recreational drugs high enough to aid and abet the criminals who profit from this very illegality.
Your idiot factory schools.
Your psychopathic religions.
Why should I try to commit "random acts of kindness",
Or "senseless acts of beauty"
No, I don't trust your society.
And I don't need to.
But I'm not one to brag.
Hey, I did what I could for you little monkeys and you bit my ass.
It heals and I can still walk.
Didn't cost me anything and you lose.
I wear my scar proudly.
Sometimes I imagine my tombstone reading "You lost more than I did here"
I still remember the kid who tripped me in the bathroom of my first grade school and broke a big chunk out of one of my front teeth.
Hope he got killed in Viet Nam.
And, in conclusion, live or die, fish or cut bait, shit or go blind, who cares?
Or do you prefer my self deprecating side?
I'm so sorry, but I seem to have been wrong about that schadenfreude thing yesterday.
Till tomorrow, then.
According to Tolstoy happy people are not as interesting as miserable people.
(somewhat crude translation from the translated Russian)
I'm having trouble dissimulating my own situation here, Really I'd like to crow about my success.
Never having made more than 24Gs in my dirty, bloody, working life, I still manage to live in a nice large house surrounded by trees, by the lake, with a great view of Paul Allen's ranch.
I still managed to accumulate a million bucks (more actually) of real estate that provides me a capitalist's income from supplying other people with a survival commodity.
I got a wife with a good job and her own fortune, I could be one of those men in a Jane Austen book who are not quite good enough for the upper crust girlies, and who'd want 'em
Or I could be a capitalist pig parasite sucking the blood out of the proles.
Or a feudal lord fleecing my flock of peasants.
I don't really have to give a damn about anything.
Not the SSO
Not Gerry Schwarz (I never could tell the difference between a good performance or a bad performance, anyway)classical music all sounds the same to me anyway.
I don't even know what a conductor does, really.
Or an "artistic director"
I don't have to give a damn about "human resources directors"
I don't have to give a damn about certain persons' traumatic pasts, even when they surface to destroy something I was trying to take seriously.
I don't need to care whether my "music" is worth a damn to anyone.
Or whether I have any "talent"
I'm alright, Jack.
I've done my best to fulfill any "obligations" to society. If "society" don't like me, society can buss my fundament.
"K 231" as Mozart once put it.
Not that I'm totally without sympathy for all the little people I float above.
It's more of a practical thing.
Why should I go to any trouble for a drowning person when all I'll get for it is punched out and maybe sued for some made up legal nonsense?
Why should I care about child abuse when it's main symptom is a belief that it's alright to abuse me in turn.
Why should I care about your laws when the main effect is to keep the price of recreational drugs high enough to aid and abet the criminals who profit from this very illegality.
Your idiot factory schools.
Your psychopathic religions.
Why should I try to commit "random acts of kindness",
Or "senseless acts of beauty"
No, I don't trust your society.
And I don't need to.
But I'm not one to brag.
Hey, I did what I could for you little monkeys and you bit my ass.
It heals and I can still walk.
Didn't cost me anything and you lose.
I wear my scar proudly.
Sometimes I imagine my tombstone reading "You lost more than I did here"
I still remember the kid who tripped me in the bathroom of my first grade school and broke a big chunk out of one of my front teeth.
Hope he got killed in Viet Nam.
And, in conclusion, live or die, fish or cut bait, shit or go blind, who cares?
Or do you prefer my self deprecating side?
I'm so sorry, but I seem to have been wrong about that schadenfreude thing yesterday.
Till tomorrow, then.
Labels: Freedom for me and not for you, Peace love and understanding
posted by Lane Savant at 11:32 AM
7 Comments:
errata;
24gs per annum that is, back in '85.
Hallo, Lane!
Many other great composers have expressed the same sentiments.
-- Anonomann
Hallo, again, Lane!
I just read Ilka Talvi's 24 March blog on his blogsite: www.schmaltzuberalles.blogspot.com
Outside of your blogs, this is the VERY best blog I have EVER read!!!!
Two points re: this:
1) The current Finnish education system was copied from that of the German Democratic Republic; when the latter was annexed in 1990 by the German Federal Republic, the latter imposed its education system on the East Germans and things went down hill. Now the West Germans sent a delegation of teachers (including a Berlin niece) to Finnland to learn what makes its system superior to all others. The dumb West Germans should have converted to the East German system when they annexed East Germany!!
2) As Talvi writed, Jesus Christ was the first Socialist!! I THAT sense I AM a Christian. But not in the mythology of the religion with that name, including the myth that Christ was the first Astronaut, whose flight was about two millennia ago (nonsense!!).
-- Anonomann
Tolstoy was a manic depressive that couldn't speak good English.
Your status as a land baron and landlord has provided you with both the incentive and chance to close PALMER AUTOMOTIVE, and clean up your knuckles.Your sainted mother had a lot to do with the pieces of property you own, have inherited, and/or have amassed.
In case you have forgotten, Meredith is coming up on her retirement, and she has several plans for your demise; or at least you seemed to think so last week.
Nobody says "G"'s anymore, big boy, now it is "K", so the more socially acceptable use of your per annum income was 24K. In many of the old gangster movies, they used to call a thousand, "large", so you might have said 24 Large. considering the inflation rates today, it is hard to remember that in 1986 I was making about 20K and thinking I was doing alright. I make three times that now and can't afford to throw out my holy shorts.
Your house is a pioneer palace, tailor made for a woodworker and expert tinkerer like yourself. There will be projects there aplenty for you for the rest of your days. I guess you cannot see Paul Gates hacienda and small county place from your yard. Even a million bucks today is chump change, enit? I think your house alone is worth close to that at today's inflated market value.
A Jane Austen character who pines for Emily Dickenson, and lusts after Emma Thompson in her bonnet--a fuedal lord cracking the whip over your serfs--a filthy capitalist pig who rapes and pillages and plunders legally--who just does not give a damn about anything; quite a portrait, sir.
All the self-depracting babble you shared relative to your musical education and appreciation was tinged with all the sweet sarcasm you could muster, and it was well said, well stated, mostly bull but effective--tinged with truth, able to enflame and encourage response.
Your crowning achievement, your greatest talent is just being you, yourself, the geniuine article. You compose music because it is your way of communicating, of creating, of contributing. It is like my poetry; perhaps just portions of treacle and moss-encrusted sentimentality; perhaps lousy--but I do not write it because I want it judged or accepted or published. Same with my narratives and film reviews. I just feel the "need" to do it, like Tom Cruise in his fighter jet, "I feel the need for speed!" Music has been your constant companion most of your life, certainly for the 50 years I have known you. Sometimes it is your friend, and sometimes it is less, but it is a constant, prevelant pressure in your guts to release it. So if it makes you less distressed, think of your compositions as a bodily function; like a vibrational flatulance. You are alright, Jack!
Even as a retiree, you still pay taxes, and make your contribution to that society that you feel you somehow are above, or not a part of. So your "obligations" are far from over. You commit and perfrom random acts of kindness because at times you are a kind man; when you are not being an asshole like the rest of us. The acts of beauty that you create with your hands and mind and heart are never "senseless". They are just unique, and perhaps not marketable; and since that is not your intention, or it doesn't seem to be, then just do it. Remember that only when we allow others to judge us are we judged.
I have often wondered how you chipped that big tooth. That bully was probably raped in a locker room in the YMCA when he was 16, became a crack addict, and died in the dumpster behind one of those rat infested restuarants in Chinatown.
Who cares? Well, actually you do, I do, Alex does, Anonomann does, Meredith does, Keth too, my Melva, and several other people. We all care too deeply about life, politics, taxes, our health, the price of petrol, sex, our body functions, art, music, and movies. Shit, man, what a question--who cares? More accurately, who does not care--about something?
I love the fact that you put a nice lengthy entry into your cyber journal. It was/is clever, humorous, dark, sarcastic, sardonic, significant and not, braggedacio, and self-deprecating. My first reaction upon reading it was just to respond with "Well said," period. But somehow my lips and fingers ran amock, and here we are with a comment almost as long as your posting. So for some inexplicable reason I find myself incapable of "not responding", or not pontificating, postulating, defining, correcting, cajoling, and following your lead; such as it is. Lead on, rave on, ratchet up your rants.
Glenn
A "K" is 24 more than a "G"
Not accurate.
I have often fantasized about flying a (SR 81? that superfast titanium spy plane) up 4th avenue full throttle, afterburners glowing, sucking out all the windows from Jackson to Pine.
I was unaware that Tolstoy could speak English at all.
Ilkka actually has real things to say I'm just foaming at the brain.
The whole joke about being a millionaire Is just that.
When "millionaire" meant something
a steak dinner cost 50 cents.
Now I'm paying 4 bucks for a loaf of bread.
"Shave and a haircut-2 bits" was just the going rate.
Meredith has been suspiciously nice to me lately.
These are exciting times.
There is the slightest possibility that I am trying to be provocative.
I'll check with my shrink.
Butch, one thing that truly disappoints a blogger is the zero in the comments section.
I appreciate your contributions, as does Alex and whomever else you bless.
Or to put it another way:
Keeping a Journal
You are supposed to do it
every day.
According to Tolstoy
happy people
are not as interesting
as unhappy people;
(somewhat crude translation
from the Russian
translation.
I’m having trouble
dissimulating
my own situation
here.
Really,
I would like to crow
about my success;
never having made more
than 24G’s per annum
in my dirty, bloody,
working life—
I still managed
to accumulate
a million bucks,
(more actually)
of real estate
that provides me
a capitalist’s income
from just supplying
other people
with a survival commodity.
I have a wife,
with a good job
and her own fortune;
like one of those men
in a Jane Austen book
who are not quite good enough
for the upper crust girlies,
and who’d want them;
or I could be a capitalist pig parasite
sucking the blood
out of the proles;
or a feudal lord fleecing my flock
of peasants.
I don’t really have to give a damn
about anything;
not the SSO,
not Gerry Schwarz; hell,
I never could tell the difference
between a good performance
or a bad performance.
Classical music all sounds
the same to me anyway.
I don’t even know what
a conductor does, really;
or an “artistic director”.
I don’t give a damn
about “human resource directors”.
I don’t give a damn
about certain person’s traumatic pasts,
even when they surface
to destroy something
I was trying to take seriously.
I don’t need to care
whether my “music”
is worth a damn
to anyone,
or whether I have
“talent”.
I’m alright, Jack!
I’ve done my best
to fulfill my obligations
to society,
and if “society” don’t
like me,
then society can
buss my fundament;
K231 as Mozart once put it.
Not that I am totally without
sympathy
for all the little people
I float above.
It’s more of a practical thing.
Why should I go
to any trouble
for a drowning person
when all I’ll get for it
is punched out,
or maybe sued
for some legal nonsense?
Why should I care
about child abuse
when its main symptom
is a belief
that it is alright
to abuse me
in turn?
Why should I care about
your laws when
the main effect
is to keep the price
of recreational drugs
high enough
to aid and abet
the criminals who profit
from this very
illegality?
Or,
your idiot factory schools,
your psychopathic religions?
Why should I try
to commit
“random acts
of kindness”, or
“senseless acts
of beauty”?
No, I do not trust
your society,
and I don’t need to;
but I’m not one
to brag.
Hey, I did what I could
for you little monkeys
and you bit me
on the ass.
It heals
and I can still walk—
didn’t cost me a thing,
and you lose.
I wear my scars proudly.
Sometimes
I imagine my tombstone
reading,
“You lost more
than I did here.”
I still remember the kid
who tripped me in the bathroom
of my first grade school
and broke a big chunk
out of one of my front teeth.
Hope he got killed
in Viet Nam.
In conclusion,
live or die,
fish or cut bait,
shit or go blind,
who cares?
Doug Palmer 2008
Glenn
Putting it as poetry tempts me to take it seriously.
A form of self abuse from which one should attempt to abstain.
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