538 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
538 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
&~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~%
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% &
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& T H E U N D I S C O V E R E D C O U N T R Y %
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% &
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& Published by SDI, Inc. Submissions to: %
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% 07NOV92 cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu &
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& After The End of History rm09216@swtexas.bitnet %
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% &
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& %
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% "Hell is other people." - Sartre &
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& %
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% PARENTAL WARNING: Even though you are most probably one of the majority, &
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& a single-parent household leader with little responsibility, we feel the %
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% need to warn you so that in case you decide to supervise your delinquent &
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& brats, you will know that we, conservative Christian moralist freaks, have %
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% determined with our infinite mental powers that the material in this &
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& netzine is not only obscene, lewd, lascivious, provocative, ambitious, %
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% cynical, destructive, stimulating, and creative, but it is also (we have &
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& real proof somewhere) obviously a missive straight from Satan, commanding %
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% Amerika's youth to turn to communism, sodomy, Satanism, and, of course, &
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& drugs and voting Libertarian. %
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% &
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~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~
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1. Greetings from the Editors
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Greetings! This is what our previous publication (which is now
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a section of this one) started out doing, and now we've just expanded
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the concept enough to be somewhat interesting to a wider range of
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people, spread more information, and possibly get something done,
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although I wouldn't bet on that, as we're dangerous slackers. Enjoy.
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La Bete Noire
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S.R. Prozak
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2. Facing The Cradle
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This work
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It lags behind the others
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Yet is ahead of the rest
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It seems dead to the touch
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But the life is underneath
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It feels pain and regret
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Yet it knows no emotions
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Save for one
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I deface it
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for its repulsiveness
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I enter the scars
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onto its surface
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I can not penetrate
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beyond that
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They can not be touched
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But they are
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constantly in sight
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It tries to continue
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this glass facade
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Where is the reality in it?
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Its reality is lost,
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alone and empty
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I despise it for existing
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I despise it for being created
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I despise those that created it
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I despise it for being alive
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I despise it for haunting my dreams
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Despite all of this
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I still love it
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-- La Bete Noire
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3. Procrastination Song, vols. I-II
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I.
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White and fluffy, warm and deep,
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Wish I had another sheep.
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Cloven hooves and beady eyes,
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I'd like to be between their thighs.
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Tripped out on testosterone,
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I'll find a sheep to call my own,
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They pant and gasp and buck in fear,
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When I ram it in their rear.
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I woo them and then tie them down,
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Then check to see who is around,
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My blood runs hot at this juncture,
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Fresh sheep anus, ripe for puncture,
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To some this poem may seem quite rude,
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I wrote it for our good friend Jude,
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'Cause during work, when we are bored,
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We talk about the sheep we've scored.
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- Manfred, Lord Genital
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II.
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>From "The Memoirs of Ronald Reagan," page 72:
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as the daylight begins to fade,
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I'm looking for a flock to raid,
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finding ewes well in their prime,
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what a delightful hobby, mine!
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grabbing each delighful creature,
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to sample pleasures they must feature,
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the zipper opens up this scene,
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before entering caverns so serene,
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that I must lubricate before I dive,
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and hope the sheep remains alive,
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because there's nothing better for me,
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than warm sheep flesh around my peewee,
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so every night as life slows down,
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check out a pasture, I'm around.
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- Samuel Taylor Cholera
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(But honestly, why shouldn't there be more sheep dating? You go
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to a bar, you pick up some member of your target sex, take them back to
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your/their apartment, fuck, and then depart...meaning? value? Pomona
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College dating seems to be this find-fellatio-fuck-forget system, which
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is pretty valueless beyond the simple sensual pleasure...but this is to
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be expected in a country where most families are shattered. So what's
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that different about doing a sheep? Remember, all sheep are inherently
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consenting - Ed.)
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4. Now
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it's the time
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for responsibility
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for repose
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for regress
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beckoning in futility
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no emotions
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no regret
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i'll still cry
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my tears
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to make the pain
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disappear again
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it's not there
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yet you dance
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so close
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too close
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to touch
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i misunderstood
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and thought i knew
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complexity of
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our interactions
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i dare not say
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that word again
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to curse myself
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but why not?
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let us dance again
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into the fire
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so we both may burn
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i can't turn my back
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on all i've learned
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and forget what it meant
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at one pleasant time
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so i may find the hope
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to try again
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one more time
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before i
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sleep
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- La Bete Noire
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5. The Moralistic Conundrum: Problems of an Unethical Moral Society
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From: POMONA::CBLANC "Spinoza Ray Prozak, HAQR/SDI" 29-OCT-1992 01:58:26.66
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To: HCAULFIELD
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CC: CBLANC
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Subj: your note
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Okay, I had the following on my door: "What's a moral? What is an ethic? Have
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you either, and if so what are they? Should I have some? Please do not reply
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while under the influence of drugs."
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The difference between moral and ethic is shaky to me, but as I understand it
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moral is part of some greater system, usually religious or societal. Ethics
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are simply a code for acting correctly, however that may be defined. Is this
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making sense?
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I have no morals, but I have my own code of ethics I developed at about age 12.
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How would I explain it? It basically relies on not hurting anyone or doing
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anything incorrect. It states that I should gratify the wishes of my animal
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soul and treat people like people instead of the way I have been treated by too
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many for my fucking years. Grounded in self control, it is basically opposed
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to violence without cause (cause is pretty fucking narrow, also) either verbal
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or physical. It's doing the right thing as I see it, acting correctly. I can
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give you examples, but I can't explain it, because it is a product of my animal
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soul, and only that and my logic can judge each instance...I don't fuck
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casually not only because I don't like it but also because it objectifies
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humans too much...something like that. I have no problem doing drugs, but
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would never subject someone to them without consent. I have no problem with my
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own death, but would not kill unless inevitable because of threatening behavior
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toward people I care about or (less so, now) myself. Is this making any sense?
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Should you have one...if you so choose. What a cop-out answer! Yeah, but this
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is the only way you can deal with it. If you feel it within yourself -- if you
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feel a need to act correctly and at least loosely codify what is correct, then
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do it. I would recommend an ethical code as opposed to a moral one, whatever
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the definitions are. I haven't gotten into the ethics/morals bullshit far
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enough in philosophy to be super knowledgeable about this. Some derive morals
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from logical constructs, but I derive it from the presence of an active animal
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intuitive center of realization within myself that wishes to do right because
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wrong hurts. Simply.
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I hope this helps. Before I read your note, I had one beer, and I've had two
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sips from the open one on the desk. This sobriety thing is kind of a
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drag.
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take care,
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S.R. Prozak
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6. Stoner Adventures, vol. III
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Calm springs days unnerve me, giving me this feel of
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restlessness, this sense that all is not as quiet as it seems in
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Nietzsche's raging universe. Such was this day, southern California
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cool, as I sat on the small porch some distance from my room, hoping no
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one would recognize the super-fat jay I'd rolled with two pieces of
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zigzag. I knew I shouldn't smoke the whole thing myself, but as I had
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no obligations and needed to kill that horrible restlessness, that
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searching feeling which has brought me despondent to many sealed doors,
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I sucked the whole thing down, finishing with the aid of my keys, which
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served as a faithful roach clip. I got up, leaving my copy of
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Zarathustra on the seat.
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Back into my now-incredibly-dark room, I staggered around the
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piles of paper and cigarette butts, finally groping to my screen. I
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stared at it for some time, wondering what I should be doing. I was
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pretty well stoned, as that jay must have had five grams of dope in it,
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good home-grown Berkeley Turbo Zonk, but my tolerance betrayed me, and
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so when Spike came in the door with a huge box and a wide grin, I was
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receptive.
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"Hey, man...look what came in the mail."
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"Is this the 'art project' you were telling me about?"
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"Yeah, check it out. Took quite a bit in shipping and all, but
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now it's here, and I just bought a bag, so let's break it in."
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"Agreed." (enthusiastically; I refuse to use the ! on a routine
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basis & especially not in situations such as that, as it is overused as
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hell by most of this country, especially teenaged girls, who can't seem
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to convey anything of any importance at all without at least six !
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trailing their sentence like a vicious tracer)
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Spike pulled open the top of the box and lifted out the object
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inside with some difficulty. I couldn't believe my eyes, as he appeared
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to be pulling out the most unlikely object ever to be bongified,
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something that appeared to be a large explosive device. With the usual
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slender tapered shape of a dangerous weapon, it sloped not into fins but
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the large mouth of some form of bottle, transplanted. Spike propped it
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against the wall and pulled out a small stand designed to fit under the
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detonator end and then rested the bomg (for such was it to be called) in
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it. The bowl was literally huge -- he must have found some oddball
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place to do this work -- and the entire thing seemed to be sealed tight
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as a drum.
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"Spike...what?...how?...who?"
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"My brother works on a five-silo site in North Dakota, and since
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they're stationed way up there and some local growers produce prime
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dope, they smoke a lot. He gets stoned more than I do, and he will even
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more now, since they've coopted the mess department, who've promised to
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requisition more funds for 'morale-boosting holiday dinners' and
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munchies. I think they sold some equipment or something, because
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they're not living off of their salaries -- anyway, he found one of
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these lying around, and converted it into a bong with some help from the
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machine department they have as part of their post-nuclear survival
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plan."
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"What was it?"
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"A Mk62 nuclear device, with option for cluster munitions, nerve
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gas and herbicidal devices."
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"Oh."
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As he said this, Spike was busily loading the bowl from the
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fattest, greenest bag of dope I've seen in some time. "I got this from
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my brother, too -- they apparently got rid of a missile or something,
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because they have a whole silo now to grow dope in. I think the
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radioactive residue helps or something. Here, take this--"
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It was a brilliant hit. More subtle than Camus, more potent
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than Sartre, more brainshocking than Nietzsche...brilliant. As I sort
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of wobbled in the corner, Spike took another. "Damn, there almost is a
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gOD," he said when finally able.
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So here I was, restless, sort of ambling for something more in a
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giant intellectual space I had no control over. It's not the
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restlessness itself that's so bad, I guess, but the feel of the reason
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behind the restlessness, that maybe it's all foolish and damnable and I
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might as well go smoke a giant fat one because there isn't much point in
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anything else -- all about the same, which transforms this into the kind
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of positive thought that weed sometimes helps slip into your mind. Or
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maybe it is the restlessness. While Spike loaded the bowl again, I was
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itching to go, but I wasn't that sure that I could move. Nevertheless
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another bomg hit did me well, I think.
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Once again on the street. Spike and I dodged cars, spoke to
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strangers and fed fifty pennies into a Coke machine (it spat them all
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out). We walked past a man preaching from his sidewalk can about the
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world ending & the value of money to him, helping save souls, but we
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didn't give him our fifty pennies.
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We came to a fountain. Spike was pretty much nonfunctional,
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having whipped out a similar joint to mine and smoked it with me,
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putting him well "under the influence." I was holding a handful of
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useless pennies, shiny, bright things that reminded me of spring days in
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childhood, innocent foolish thoughts of how pretty they were & better
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than gold. I threw them into the fountain, where they engendered a
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brief & lasting (on the backs of my eyes) rainfall. Spike asked me why
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I did that & I replied that it was for good luck, although it never had
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brought it to me, and he asked me why I did it then, & I said it was a
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product of hope, 'cuz otherwise it was too cold to see.
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Seven men spoke to us about politics, but I don't think I heard
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much of what they were saying; we went back our way, skipping rocks down
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the gutter.
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7. A Tribute To Yog Sothoth
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even in the tranquil dark
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beyond the thumbd visages of the day
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and their complaints of no demise:
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safety eludes, now,
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from that which plagues me (now only)
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remembrances of past freedom & delight
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desire under love's command
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lurking thoughts of beauty
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drifting like the wind.
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showing my flattened cheeks & widely eyes
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two flames stretch to fill the room
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smaller & larger, they brightly dance
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for a future, on shades of wax.
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nothing could save this moment
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from my mournful sacred eyes,
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caught in both and catching all
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too much to forget --
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when what you want is gone,
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can we want anything?
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enchanted solitude & memory
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and forests of placid dreams
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cherished by another, younger
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standing next to me.
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when I once fell from a plastic bike
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and then returned to find it gone
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my eyes turned inward, bitter shield
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something not the first. fucking. time.
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i'd ever lurk in there, living in
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a hairshirt.
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sometime in a spring like this
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the fakest spring of fading fall
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i fell in love & learned that bliss
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covers not vengeful withal.
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when digging for my veins of gold
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they asked me what I thought of this
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if it were me, if I were sane,
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my reply could only be
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that simple thoughts refreshing once
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had formed me in another way
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that path destroyed, that countenance
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leads me to another sense
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that somehow here in this great land
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pits of time and death do dwell
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leaving forgotten our enchanted hopes
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something to sustain us, nothing more
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second stage brings sordid thoughts
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cynical complaints, and hatless wanderings
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then we come to this great door
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and left beyond in only minds
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bereft we stagger to the frame,
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and seek our solitude inside.
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- S.R. Prozak
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8. Adrenalin & Serotonin
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DRI! These letters stood for the band that would wander
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onstage during the early eighties, shout 1-2-3-4 and suddenly
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become an entirely separate entity from the rest of the universe,
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with Spike Cassidy flailing away like a recently released demon on
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his large guitar, Kurt Brecht shouting out vocals like a drill
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sergeant on PCP, and two anonymous guys (usually changing with every album)
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pounding on bass and drums at high speed. One of the genre's
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first, DRI helped define what thrash was to be: hardcore punk
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crossed over with metal, played at high speed, top volume, and full
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rage. Taking the simplicity and rage of hardcore and the heaviness
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and intellectual approach of metal, thrash produced short and fast
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songs with the stopping power of a .45 hollowpoint.
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Their first album clocked in at 23 minutes with 28 songs on
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it. DRI's second wasn't much different, having the same half-
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minute-kill approach to many of the album's classic cuts. Shortly
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after this, DRI slowed down. Whether it was the times, age, or an
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impulse for popularity, we'll never know. I think it was
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confusion, born of popularity, the demise of thrash, and
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experimentation. Three more albums passed that way, and then DRI
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all but disappeared.
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Having been absent for a while, DRI have come back in with
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more fanfare for their sixth album, produced through their own
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Rotten Records label, located in Montclair. Coming up to this
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album, DRI had several options. They could opt for their former
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sound, continue the slower, near-speed metalish path they were
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following, or try something unprecedented. Their newest album,
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"Definition," waffles. The essential character is the continuation
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of the style of their last album, with some improvements that
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appear to be mainly the result of personnel changes and experience.
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The music to "Definition" most resembles the style of their
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album "Crossover," which was a slowed but vicious guitar shadowed
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by bass and synchronized to incessant full-on drumming. In this
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effort the smoother tempo changes and bridges learned in later
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albums come to demonstrate greater musical prowess, something
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thrash never aspired to.
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Unlike Suicidal Tendencies and Cryptic Slaughter and Corrosion
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of Conformity, thrash bands which changed fairly drastically and
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became light speed metal acts without much distinctiveness or any
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of their former emotional or lyrical brilliance, DRI changed but
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did so without falling out of character. Their new music was as
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caustic as their earlier stuff, only on a less-intense, more
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cynical basis.
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New aspects of the music and lyrics come with this release.
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Rob Rampy IV takes over the chore of drumming, and adds more of a
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metallic touch, including double bass drumming and harder, more
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driving drum patterns. Bass guitar, supplied by John Menor, has
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taken the route followed by much of hardcore, with more interesting
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fills and interludes, although the basic riff-following tendency
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remains. Spike Cassidy's powerful guitar takes to somewhat more
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complicated riffs and bridges but still retains its power with
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minimalistic but authentic riffs. This album isn't as messy as
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earlier efforts, which makes for a slicker listening experience but
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often detracts from this genre.
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"Definition" takes the new DRI sound and does respectably with
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it, given all factors. There are changes like a non-distorted
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lead-in to a song, more of a reliance on repetitive, chanted
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choruses, and a general slickness, but I wouldn't class this album
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with the efforts of so many bands to earn money. Call it aging,
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call it changing opinions, call it a change for the worse but call
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it authentic - there doesn't seem to be any hypocrisy in this, any
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commercial drive. It's not their best by far, but for a 1992
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album, it's much better than average. And expected: nothing that
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energetic could last forever.
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9. The Coming of The Apocalypse
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Amerika, land of many useless things, most of which float about
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like those plastic statuette of liberty tokens that people bought in
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flocks some years ago. Amerika's future remains uncertain, but with a
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new president, there's at least some false optimism floating around and
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influencing the rest of us to idiotic levels; hope can be a dreadful
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thing, especially when used as a pair of blinders, much as Amerikans use
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it.
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But there's something to be said for Amerikans as survivors in
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an empty way of life; the meaning, whatever could once have been gleaned
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from this existence, has been totally excluded, and we now survive with
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brave hearts & faces in a land of opportunity squandered.
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Relationships, shattered -- we're left objectivizing each other, chasing
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after poon or penis, or, in the case of some suppressed minorities such
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as the gay community, fucking in fear & dodging the nigh-impossible
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longterm relationship. Too much permissiveness on one end, too much
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reluctance on another. Jobs are things we swap when bosses rage or
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companies fail, searching in almost total futility for a comfortable
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place to work, shifting ourselves into functional yet unenlightening
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|
careers -- what is there in our personal spaces, what we call our lives,
|
|
beyond the illusory?
|
|
Some fill this void with religion, others drugs, others causes
|
|
with the intellectual nutrition of white bread but the conviction of
|
|
desperation. We see the abortion issue going from the fundamentalist
|
|
podium to the streets in anger; is it really worth this much to these
|
|
people, or is this the desolation of loneliness & emptiness at work,
|
|
driving them toward something -- even a something hollow like a desert
|
|
bone -- to hold on to and defend more than life? Is this what we seek
|
|
when life becomes an echo, the something worth more at least temporally
|
|
to us? Moscow's celebrated problem with the collection of frozen
|
|
corpses of passed-out vodka escapees mirrors only our own. Reality in
|
|
the sixties was something to be obliterated to reach out from, but in
|
|
the eighties (and continuing into the nineties) reality is something to
|
|
be obliterated so that we may survive in it.
|
|
So we can blame it all on Nietzsche, and strive for what's next.
|
|
If solutions are to be found it is doubtful they will be within the
|
|
pages of this essay. Like the rest of life, this is essentially a
|
|
useless activity: lamenting the givens of our existence. Or perhaps it
|
|
is just procrastination on the part of the author, something to keep him
|
|
from falling into the same pit he describes. More likely this is just
|
|
another futile & dangerous attempt on the part of SDI, Inc. to foster
|
|
thought, no matter how depressing, dangerous or seductive it may be.
|
|
Or maybe Nietzsche is correct, and this is just another step
|
|
toward the time of silence, that dubiously mythical time of the last
|
|
human being.
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|
- S.R. Prozak
|
|
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|
10. How To Access All of Our Neat Stuff
|
|
|
|
SDI, Inc. has a pseudo-ftp site set up for anyone at all to
|
|
peruse, ramble, explore and enjoy. Access is easy:
|
|
|
|
I. If you're at Pomona college,
|
|
|
|
type:
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|
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|
$ set def po_1995:[cblanc.angst]
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|
|
|
and you should be in a directory from which you can read and copy files.
|
|
|
|
II. If you're elsewhere,
|
|
|
|
FTP to POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU
|
|
|
|
type:
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|
|
|
POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU>login anonymous <here type in your address>
|
|
POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU>cd po_1995:[cblanc.angst]
|
|
|
|
We have back issues, interesting tidbits, conspiracy theories,
|
|
and other publications as well as a large collection of ouphiliac
|
|
paraphrenalia. If there is something you wish to have kept at this
|
|
site, please email "cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu."
|
|
|
|
11. This Is The End
|
|
|
|
Thus we come to an end to this, our first issue. Please
|
|
distribute this & contribute anything you have that you feel is
|
|
valuable; we have minimal editorial requirements, and almost no topical
|
|
or linguistic ones.
|
|
Let the struggle continue...
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|
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-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
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\ /
|
|
/ Self - Destructive Initiative, Inc. \
|
|
\ November, 1992 /
|
|
/ \
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-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
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