Monday, May 30, 2005

Memes Gets Meme'd By Pastorius

I've been Meme'd by one of my the least favorite of my people in the whole wide world; that would be Pastorius over at the surreally satirical blog, CUNANAS.

I have longed maintained that Pastoirius is working out levels of irony that rival that Tower of Babel, in both sheer altitude, not too mention, ambition. It's indeed frightening to think of what kind of multi-ambidextrous mind must be to come up with the cacaphonous crap that that guy comes up with day in, and day out. And nobody even reads him. He just keeps writing and writing, and writing, and writing, and .

Ah well, for now, we must accept what we can not exceed.

On to the strange "Book Meme", which Pasroroius has so ill-fortunately sent my way. (By the way, I'm not exactly sure what he means by a "Meme", anyway).

1. Total Number of Books I have owned. The number strecthes litrally into the hundreds of thousands. Many of them I have owned with tedious repetition. I often amble into a latenight bookstore with nothing else to do, only to find that I come out of it with a confused jumble of books, many of which I have already owned.

I must admit that sometimes, I do buy books based solely upon the attractiveness of the girl behind the counter. In such cases, I will meander the lazy labrynthe of the bookstore aisles, in a valorous attempt to find books that she might like, if she were buying them.

I do not like to admit, my less intellectual activities, but in the interest of partipating in this "meme" I will go for it. Yes, I buy books that I think the countergirl would like so that she might be jealous and ask me about them , only to strike up a conversation, which in a meta-determined series of happy acciedents, many times, leads me to the nascent nuptials of my neo-gnarctisism.

But anyway, that's why I often end up buying the same books over and over. I must have owned 70 or 80 copies of The Bell Jar, for instance. Or how many times, have I bought Sexual Personae by the fearey Camille Pahlia? Or The Lonely Doll, by Dare Wright. That one works in a pinch everytime.

But, maybe once again I have gone astray, because I have not revealed the origination of my love for books. When I was a child, my family lived in a very large house in the Hamptons (well, my mother and I did, my father only visited on the weekesnd, He had an apartment in the city during the weekdays). On those weekends when my father did make his dread presence known, I would retire to our families vast library, for this is the one room in the house, wherein I could be exceedingly sure that my father would not visit.

In this mysterious antechamber I would find my hearts delight. Books upon books, with all the stories of the world and then some. Whereas, I always knew what was going to happen in the real world, I never knew what would happen in a book. I think this is what Hamlet meant by:

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your spitoon-like mind, my fair Horatio."

Because like Stephen kIng's great novel of the 21st century Rose Red, the house that contains a library is larger in demension on the inside than it is on the outside.

(I know , i know about Danielevski, and his incipient pile of trash , House of Leaves, the supposed inspriation for Rose Red. Let's fact it, King doesn't read, nor does he need to read, so he could not have been influenced by such a vapid work)

My childhood thus wasn't was spent reading the works of Ovid, Rilke and Joyce. I once designed a popup book based upon the characters from The Dead.

Anyway, at least a portions of the hundreds of thousands I count as my own are the ones which became a part of me, in those earlly days of childhood in my parents Hampton House library.

2. Last book I bought. It would be better to ask me, "Screaming Memes, what was the last book you stole?" Because that would be a better story. Stealing books, is a more sincere endeavor for me, because when I steal, I do it out of a real desire to possess the book (in the Biblical sense of the word), to have it and to hold it, in an embrace of love, suspended above the dreary dollarhounds of the capatalist conclave.

If I steal a book, it is mine in a way that no book could be if I bought it. When I buy a book, I can never truly enjoy it, because my stomach churns with noxious nausea just thinking about the "publishing house" which enjoy the booty of Baal's blood that is the bilging bourgeiouisie bank of bile.

Besides, as I mentioned before, I only pay for books, when I'm trying to impress the counter girl.

I have never been caught, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.

3. Last Book I Read. Howard Zinn's A Peephole Histroy of the American People. I'm still digesting this book. It is unsettlingly impactful in it's absolute evisceration of the American panoply. No stone is left unturned, that one isn't so angry as to turn yet again.

For instance, when Zinn set his incisors to the reality of the World War II mythos and the revelation sunk in that Roosevelt played the Machiavellian with the Japanese - and truly baited them into the bombing of Pearl Harbor - it became immediately impairent after all these years, that something is amiss.

And then, if you think about it, what does Japan have to do with the Nazi's anyway? (Now, let's not mince words here, I, Memes, is definately against the Nazi's. My great grandmother Lipschitz expired in a Nazi camp), but let's face it, there could have been other ways to take care of the Germans, by appealing to the people since of Democracy for instance.

The Germans are a proud people, and if it would have been made clear to them what was being done in their name, we can rest assured they would have been very angry and thrown Hitler out of office.

4. Five Books That Mean a Log To me.

1) Manufacturing Consent by Noam Chomsky - just as the date rapist turns a "no" into a yes, so does the American Television systeme manufacture a "yes" to their murdrous military machinations.

2) Wanted Man: In Search of Bob Dylan Everything you ever wanted to know about the "poet laureate" of American song. We are even treated to the early day romance he had (tender moments) with Bonnie Breecher, the original "Girl from the North Country" from the legendary song of the same name. If you ever wondered to yourself, "What was Bob like, back before he was Dylan? Does he still like to be called Zimmy by his personal friends?" this is the book for you.

3) The Lords and The New Creatures by Jim Morrison. The seminal poetry of Jim Morrison, written mostly in college classes, in lieu of notetaking. This is the vital, innocent Morrison. Before the drink and hallucenogens smashed his mind into a billion brilliant refracting slivers of mirror. What a revalation.

4) Simulacra and Simulation by Jean Baudrillard - This is one of the deepest works of profundity to which I have ever applied my mind's resources. Baudrillard deconstructs word, media and deed, in a punishing analysis of America's radical severance from reality. Baudrillard elucidates all the ways in which America flooded the original ocean of our vision with the viscous hyppereality of petrochemotherapy.

Yes, this is the book from which spawned the word "the Matrix" which has since itself become part of the Matrix - as it is a hit movie, and is thus subservient to the capatalist system. But, that unfortunate incident was not Baudrillards doing (and I am pretty sure he is appropriately ashamed) so it really shouldn't affect our appreciation of his apparatus.

5) Zen and The Art of motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Prisig. I'm going to be honest with you, I don't really remember reading this book, but I know from the effluvia of the time (early 70's) that this was an influential work. An eery attempt at a transmigration of all values, the West meets the East, (and we all know how that ought to turn out if ever the maraudering mammals of mammon would ever give us a head start) and a prescient reminiscience of the days when quality meant more than the hierarchical qualitative.

5. Who will I infect with this Meme?

George Bush, because he has a lot to ANSWER for.

Henry Kissinger, because the Atlantic Monthly has proven it all beyond a shadow of a .

Zack De La Rocha a brother with whom I can reallywork together share in a movement.

Thanks for rockin' wit me,

Screaming Memes

Sunday, April 17, 2005

IraqWarWrong Back

The Iraq War Was Wrong Blog seems to be bcak in business. This is a good thing because we have defiantely gotten derailed by all this "Democracy" nonesense.

And, also, I'm glad to see that someone is hard at working on soluitions againt the next Bushitler fiasco.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Breaking Through the Fourth Wall - Message From Pastorius

Hi Everybody,
Pastorius here. I ma so sorry. No, let's spell this write.

I am very busy with multiple projects these days, and I find that I just don't have it in me to write stuff for this site. Besides, as my buddy IWW said, and I'm paraphrasing here, we're going through a time where the news tends to not be presenting so much Bushitler hysteria. For God's sake, the New York Times said, the other day, that Bush's policy of promoting Democracy in the Middle-East seems to be working.

Truth is, I only really feel inspired to write Memes when I'm extremely angry. Memes is my way of yelling back at the TV. It has been great therapy for me. I hope that maybe it functions as the same for others as well. Of course, we've had the odd person or two come to this site who doesn't get it, but I'm sure such people don't get much of anything in life, right?

Anyway, I'm kind of sad because I have really enjoyed the camaraderie of the IWW universe, of which Memes has been a small part. So, I will miss this, but hey, when you don't got it, you don't got it.

Maybe something will happen in the world which will inspire me to come back and start writing again. Or, maybe when I'm done with my other projects the inspiration will come back.

We'll see.

Of course, by then I won't have any readers left.


Friday, February 25, 2005

My Birthday

Today is my birthday. Horatio and Ngude say they have a surprise for me. We shall see what lies in store for me.

I don't care much for gifts, typically. I'm just happy to be here with friends.

I will be out of range all day. Will write more when I get back.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

This Beauty Is Written In Me

I've always considered myself to be a "spiritual" person. What exactly I mean by that, I am not sure. I guess I mean, it seems to me I have a "spirit" and I am aware of it. But, I never really entertained the idea that my spirit connected to anything, except nature, and the odd woman.

I mean there were times earlier in my life, when I would meet a woman and it was as if a door opened in my soul. Kind of like those dreams you have where you're walking through your house, and you find rooms you didn't know were there. That's what it would be like. I'd meet a woman and I would find other rooms, more ornately adorned and frangrant places inside myself.

And when I would make love to a woman who opened these new rooms, I would feel as if she reached in to them and helped to decorate them with herself. I wasn't clear about it, though. It seemed as if, maybe, these new rooms in my soul were her rooms. Maybe they weren't rooms in my soul at all. Maybe they were the private, but infinite, amphitheatres of her heart.

Certainly, some women inspired in me a feeling of openess, within myself, which was larger than the spaces I had previously known myself to encompass. I feel as if I, Screaming Memes, live in a small room with a window to an infinite view, a study, within which, one can read many books which look out into the sky. So, I have an infinite feeling within me, but I feel confined personally, if that makes sense.

When I say "infinite amphitheatre" for instance, I remember, literally, with one woman, of whom I was particularly fond, I felt as if I had enlarged exponentially. One time I was with her and it felt like I was dancing with her on the peak of a hill with a valley below, a 360 view of valleys and green hills and mountains.

Now, it could have just been the marijuana, but that was the image I got. Truth is, we were just talking, alone in a room, and I was holding her close.

I'm trying to be honest with myself here. I remember a time, when I was younger, when I felt these moments of profound peace. I called them "spiritual" experiences then, but I didn't give any thought to where they came from. These experiences I have had here in Maui the past few days have inspired a calmness and a contemplation which I find difficult to achieve in the frenetic environment of the city, as I'm sure you can tell.

I haven't felt like this for a long time. I really don't know what to think.

But, I feel as if I'm coming to some sort of clearing, like stepping out of a thick forest into, well, I don't know.

I can say this. There was a feeling of destiny or foreordination about the experiences I have had. But, here's the really strange thing. There was also a feeling of deja vu, like I had experienced all of this before. No, not even just experienced, but that I had participated in creation in some way. I don't know how to explain this.

Certainly, I know that the beach, and the mountains of Maui, are beyond my scope to imagine, let alone create. That is laughable. I am, absolutely, awed by their beauty, but I feel as if I have sat, somewhere, with someone, before, and had it all explained to me. That's what I mean by foreordination. I feel as if this beauty is written in me.

Now, I know I'm not being specific about anything here. I'm talking about the essence of my experience. I'm being abstract.

Truthfully, emotonally, it's hard for me to say that, when I was out walking with Ngude the other day, I was moved, almost to tears, just by looking at one large, veined, impossibly green leaf, which hung down from a tree, at a delicate and, somehow perfect angle, right in my path. It's hard to explain how it seemed so right to me. So excellent, and deserving of a loving, almost sexual adoration. But it's true. I looked at the web of it's veins. The liquid sheen of it, belying it's more sublte textures; it's fingerprint. A leaf I would have just thought to be in my way, on another day, if say, I were walking in Central Park.

Or, how do I say that the constant roar of a waterfall, we found hidden in a little cove, gave off a massive sense of stillness? How do I explain that I felt pinned, or rather struck immovable, by silence, while all raged furiously around me? And yet I was still fully under control of my will. I looked at the waterfall, and moved my hand up in front of my face, just to see if I could move. I could, but it was as if the stillness was a living being, born inside me, and once again, the deja vu.

These are very disjointed thoughts, perhaps. I'm sorry if I'm not making any sense to you. I'm trying to make these things make sense to me.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005


Drove through the mountains yesterday with Ngude. The intense emeralds of the foliage and trees contrasting with sudden blue blasts of sky were magnificent. The whole world looks wet, as if new born. It's hard not to feel hopeful and alive when surrounded by such beauty.

Monday, February 21, 2005

The Beach

Maui. I don't know what the word means in the traditional Hawaiian language, but to me it means breathtaking beauty. We're staying at a luxury resort Hotel, nestled into a cove which seems to be the original garden.

Horatio and I took a walk out on the beach early this morning. Green foliage and blue water and white sand. Clean sharp colors at first glance. A picture postcard world. We rented "boogie boards" and I went out onto the water at a time of low tide. There really weren't any waves to catch. So I just layed there on my board and thought.

I rest in the ocean rolling in and out, in and out. The Earth's inhalation and exhalation, nature contemplating itself, and finding that it is good. A long period passed and then, I look around at the sharp colors again, and find this whole place, this beatiful cove, the sky, the water, Maui herself, it is all a jeweled-prism; the ten-thousand facets of light-refracted, and sparkling all around me.

I was dazzled. A deep feeling welled up inside me that I can compare only to the the pristine rush of first love. A mysterious need, a velvety thankfulness at one's being having been taken note of. I suddenly felt not so small in the universe, but instead, I experienced an ineffable but visceral sensation of profound individual resonance. I felt bottomless, and yet supported. A feeling of falling, but with universal guidance.

I really don't know how to put these feelings into words at all. I must say, I'm not quite sure that they are even feelings. There was something very real about this "experience". Something more akin to a pang of hunger, or a slap in the face. In other words, real, not felt. Not emotion-based. But instead deeply physical, and yet, at the same time, wedded with a more mysterious spirit.

It was astonishing. That's the word for it. I can say no more.