DJ Krush - Jingle Jangle (Mental Mix)

Off the quintessential mix album, "Code 4109."

DJ Krush - Jingle Jangle (Mental Mix) by prospectre

Brainspill on Aisle 5...

It's nauseating.  All I'm surrounded by, every day, is people using the same patterns and styles of social camoflauge with just enough irregularity to make each of them seem unique.  This beautiful flash-in-the-pan spontaneity--the supposed light of human existence, itself--is not all what it appears to be. 

It's consuming.  I'll be sitting with friends, even family, and my mind is suddenly awash with their separate little communicative signals, illuminated by each and every detail of their deliveries.  I'll notice the identity-stroking, or conversely, perhaps, the seeping doubt--either of which could be the catalysts behind a phrase as innocuous as: "Some day at work today," or "Getting back to the gym is good."  Whatever is said, there's a message involved which gets conveyed through code.  For some reason, in this society, grace is synonymous with a certain shade of dishonesty.  To actually tell someone: "Hey, work is killing me: my back is going to go out any second," you have to really fucking trust them. 

This rock-solid social barrier we call "trust" has forced us to create an "over-language," almost, like an island of speech which floats on top of the undulating truths below.  I have to commit much more energy into deciphering other peoples' bullshit; now that "trust" is a factor.  But what does it even mean, to trust someone?  Shouldn't we just say love? 

Because you can't really trust someone you hate, can you?  There has to be an element of love involved.  You don't share your hidden parts with people you don't like.  So all you're really doing with this code, this overspeech, is voicing your disrespect for whoever has to tolerate it from you...Disrespect on a sliding scale.  Maybe "disrespect" is the wrong word, but it is a certain lack of love, or distancing, that happens on a ramped up level from the people you've chosen to be in your life to the people you haven't.  This is why "phone voices" happen, or it's how you talk when you're in a cab.  Small talk.  Bullshitting.  But there's meaning to every last breath of it, because we just can't fucking help ourselves, and this is where I come in.

I want to cut everybody a break, I suppose, because it is by the light of music and even new experiences, themselves, that our fledgling capacity for language is exposed as ultimately fraudulent.  We're working with rusty tools, but they're the only ones in the shed.  That said, we can still use them together.  It's beautiful and intense to share.  To really, honestly open up about something you're thinking about with no reservations and no worries-- that's when the best ideas form. 

But perhaps it's too beautiful and too intense.  Maybe we can only mentally sustain a select few of these types of relationships.  Hence the code.  Hence the gnawingly constant spinning of the bullshit web.  We're not all created equal, we know it, and our system of trust defines the boundaries for expression.  Like slaves roped together on a staggeringly criss-crossed latticework of chains, yanking each other closer and farther away and here and there, everywhere.  It's all so ordinary and stilting.  I want to break free...

Slakah the Beatchild - Living For the Rush

I dunno about this guy's name...sounds a little forced (wtf is a beatchild?), but this is a nice little riff he gets on here.  Good for any time of day.

Slakah The Beatchild - Living For The Rush by prospectre

I'm Afraid, In Your Anger...You Killed Her...

It's hard not to want to cross over to the dark side when I start seeing all these assholes who win.  And win routinely.  Christopher Columbus: asshole/slaver/rapist and possessor of the ultimate win of discovering the New World.  Bill Gates: stole his machine concept from Steve Jobs and possessor of like $30 billion.  Cortes: burns villages out of spite and brings oodles of gold back to the motherland.  If you want your name to echo throughout eternity, you'll have to use a fiendish & cancerous mentality.  Destroy and move forward.  Upwards.  Harvest the requisite cattle and then dispose of them when the time is right.

Let's be real, right: nice guys do finish last.  And not only do they finish last, they finish derided, laughed at, and generally maimed by the blistering magma of aggression which dominates all of us, underneath all our posturing and protective measures.  Being nice means being obsequious, which can transitively signify weakness.  There's nothing strong about it.  The best thing being nice does is it makes one feel good about himself.  He is now free to enjoy his own company for a time both during and after his altruism.

The best praise comes from yourself, of course.  You are the best judge you will ever know.  Well.  The best and the worst.  Because this judge can and will often become overruled by whatever drastic and beautiful learning curve wrenches you to make a new framework for your decision-making.  All this turbulence is bound to take a toll on you.  The important thing to remember is this: we're all animals.  When dogs fight, the one who is bleeding the worst is the loser.  That behavior is universal.

Dibiase - Living My Life

This jam is word as hell! Can't get enough of the opening sequence snappin into the sample like that. I don't even know why I try to verbalize these things...it's ill, on that primal level.

Dibiase - Living My Life by prospectre

Eric Lau - The Garden

Infectious somehow and wonderfully so- like a virus that eats your brain and gives you the deepest sense of ecstasy for a stretch before you eventually grow bored of the ecstasy and fill the ever-existent void with some other clean shit.


Eric Lau - The Garden by prospectre

Bracing for the Onslaught

I'm losing sleep nowadays because while I know insanity is "doing the same thing over and over and expecting  different results," I continue to find myself in pursuit of the same goal, going about that in the same old way, with the same role players involved (only- different faces).  I've become comfortable, somehow, with the back rooms and kitchens and grease pits of the world.  How sad is that.  I'm good enough with myself to say that I have a grip on the lowest level work offered by my society.  Fuckin badge of honor!

I know the direct future involves me doing idiot-work for jackshit wages while the people stream through and (hopefully) only occasionally use me as a human Kleenex.  Being new and unknown somewhere means working from the bottom-up, resume notwithstanding.  Retard-work like salting the fries before putting them in a bag and then putting them in a larger bag and then doing that again is what I have to look forward to.  If I'm lucky.  I've spilled out in a big way professionally, so much so that it's laughable to refer to any one segment of my life as being "career-oriented."

Hasn't happened quite yet.  And now I'm starving myself and scouring the streets like a goddam zombie.  When I get out.  I have to commit to at least a mile-long walk in any direction just to get anywhere, and when I look out my tiny window and see those snowflakes whirling in the wind against the gray sky and it's cold as fuck in my room because I killed the heater in order to save on a bill that I still haven't figured out how I'm going to pay...well.  I guess I rationalize my pathetic life by putting it up on the world scale.  "A Somali man has actually killed another man for gloves like these," I'll think as I stub out my cheap fucking cigarette and hustle my hand back into the mitts my Mom bought for me.

It's all so hilariously sad!  I'm worried it'll be this way forever.  And so what: if it ever stops, I'll just get bored anyway--because (here we go...grandiosity as a means for distraction) happiness is a stunted concept.  Problems originate in any environment, you know, like it's not gonna matter that the toilet seat I'm puking into is a Kohler or laid in brass or whatever.  I understand the wisdom of utilitarianism.

But something else in me strives for a splash of color.  "Strives" is the wrong word.  "Hungers for," maybe.  And of course we all do, otherwise we'd be living in space-efficient tombstones like they have up in Shanghai.  Who and what I am is always changing, but I guess collecting shit along the way broadcasts the closest signal I've been able to obtain so far.  But that signal is still so fuckin hazy, and I'm always always surprising myself (for better or worse) with the fresh curvatures of my reactions to this and that.  I used to LOVE Green Day way back when, like bumpin fuckin "Dookie" every day for a month, and now I can't stand them!  Not even "Dookie!"  The guy starts whining into the mic and a rising siren of hatred sounds far and long somewhere deep in my skull.  Like you know that feeling you get when you see Fred Phelps talking?  Or when you witness the unfair, state-sponsored execution of an innocent convict?  That's what happens to me when a passing car stereo pumps split-seconds of their bullshit into my life.

So fuck those guys.  But that's what I'm saying.  As I've grown to learn more about music, my tastes have changed.  Ostensibly, for the better.  But Green Day sells out arenas full of devoted fans.  Whatever wait.

Am I more myself or less myself (yep Tracey Thorne) because my perspective is in perpetual mayhem?

Now I make coffee and hope to wrangle up an interview or two at your local Arby's or Burger King.  Less myself.