Cyber Scripting

If you’d let me. If you’d be so kind. If you’d allow me to crawl out
of this box of dead Youtube celebrities.
To climb over the hanged Soundcloud miscreants. The twitter bird is
lying at the bottom of the cage in a mine.

Oh, it went by in an Insta. We turn the pages to the end within
a book that has no face
and then go back to page 1.

I don’t like intrusions.
Let’s close the door and go back
down to the basement.
Shuffling
through
the 70 year old ladyboys
and leather-clad bears.
Yes, Daddy.
No, Daddy.
Thank you, Daddy.

Ferocious.

Someone, turn on a light. Please?
My close up has come and gone and come.
I’m so hot can I come out now?
These blankets are so heavy when I’m in bed
with myself.
Look at me, raving like
a goat in a hailstorm!
May I have this dance? Let’s read all this history
voraciously.

I can hardly see through all of the haze,
all of the shop talk.
The story is so old
we stopped posting.
We stopped dancing on the webcams.

Slide the VHS in deep and
press “record”.
We shall proceed?
Shall we proceed?
The fallen angels,
the milquetoast devils.

They lured me in with passion
to find my passion going tactical nuclear.
Leaving them sundered
while I dance my dance of The Thousand Zeros and Ones.

If you’d let me. If you’d be so kind.
Close the door.
There’s a gig of draft in here and someone keeps spraying for terabytes.

The Artist D, January 2019

The Artist D, January 2019

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Authenticity Gone Missing

The problem is a lack of authenticity. But has there ever been any authenticity in the first place? Has there been anything new since the postmodernists?

New age is old age. Since the new guard became the old guard. We have surpassed the neo-postmodernists and they didn’t even know they were neo. We are members of the rearguard awaiting the changes.

I come from the underground, but where is that?

Have you been alive long enough to remember when people used to add people to their friend’s networks? To be friends. When the phrase was “go hang with your friends” instead of “go network.”

I can’t tell you the last time I got “followed” by a person. I mean, a real person who just exists in this world and wants to read my thoughts.

Everyone is a business these days. “I’m not a businessman,” we used to joke. “I’m a Business, man.”

Now that’s no joke.

For a decade or more it’s always another content creator trying to add me in order to network with me. It’s no wonder Corporations are considered people. Everybody is a business.

Friends with benefits. I’ll be your friend if you buy my makeup, my CD, my oh my my. The modern day Avon salesperson.

The neo post Avon salesperson.

Remember when friends with benefits just meant we were also getting laid?

Those were the days.

We are not friends. We are network partners. We are a bunch of artists, musicians, and writers adding other artists, musicians, and writers so we can bolster our numbers and network towards success.

“Wow, I really liked what you wrote there. Have you seen my Patreon?

The innocent and naive question that stirs often is, “Where are all the people who are just people?”

Everyone has to be somebody and I can’t blame them because since birth I have been very busy being somebody. I feel stupid even wondering why anyone would just want to be an observer or a consumer. I wouldn’t.

And yet if you look out into the crowds of the world all that seems to be there are consumers! But look into the Interwebs and I don’t have an audience. I have a network of networkers. Except for my old friends. The friends I made when we had friends lists and observed each others work, as friends.

Where are the new friends? Where are the couch surfers and the bohemians looking for love? (Sure, where have all the cowboys gone?)

With every “add” I receive there is another message asking me to please “Like” their page or “Try” their wears.

“I follow back!”

Can’t we just have a conversation? Can’t we just travel through and get drunk together? To share a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Can’t we take some pictures for our personal photo album and not share it with the world? Polaroids, perhaps.

When life was a great night out ending with a great story. Instead of a great night out ending with me subscribing to your Youtube channel. Of course, you already had subscribed to mine.

But what’s wrong with that? Why can’t we have an unbalanced superstar vs. civilian relationship? Why can’t the consumers just give adoration, adoration, adoration?

Why can’t you give me the respect that I’m entitled to? Why can’t you treat me like I would be treated by any stranger on the street? (Mommy Dearest, 1981)

Because everyone is out for their 15 minutes. Because Mr. Warhol promised.

The Artist D, November 2018

The Artist D in the Red Room, November 2018

Self Mythology

I never really expected that I would get to be myself all of the time, every day. That goes along with my gender too.

I think as a child I decided that I fully disagreed with everything my family told me I was. Since we were in total disagreement I would need to be the opposite. That or I would at least have to ignore the person they told me I was. I really didn’t like that person, because it wasn’t me!

Never listen to other people’s stories about you. There’s a good satisfying piece written about this in Thee Psychick Bible. It goes beyond doing or being what your parents tell you. It truly spotlit for me that which we already know about (parental expectations, guidance, and rule), but there are these stories that we are told by the society around us. And they go beyond the usual “you’re going to be a Doctor when you grow up” or “you’re going to marry a beautiful woman, have 12 babies, white picket fences.”

These stories go deeper than those blatant expectations. The stories are actually what we believe to be our first “memories.” These memories are actually hand-me-downs from other people. Amusing anecdotes passed back to us about ourselves. These stories are from a time in our lives we cannot recall ourselves and dastardly enough we actually begin to build ourselves from these fables.

“Usually, without much consideration of veracity or motive, we assume those original stories (whose source is usually parental) are true, rather than separately authored and constructed mythologies. Yet, with the best will in the world, they are edited highlights (and lowlights) from another person’s perspective, interpreted by them, and even given significance and meaning by their being chosen to represent the whole of us, before our own separate SELF consciousness sets in.” *

That was the paragraph that set off an explosion in my brain. It sticks with me years after first reading those lines. I had fought for most of my life to not be what I was told I should be, almost out of spite, but I never considered what foundation had been put down before I even consciously arrived on the scene.

My family told me that I would be like my father and I would follow in his footsteps. That meant to me, a Sun Sign and wild egotist, that I would never be my own person and forever live in someone’s shadow. I have nothing against my father or his chosen lifestyle, but you don’t tell someone that when they practically have marched from the womb with mighty delusions of grandeur.

I remember the type of anecdotes mentioned above most from a grandmother. If anyone was a fan of the mythology of me, it was she. She would observe me acting in a way she felt was “not me” and then go through great pains to tell me how the child I could not recall would have never done whatever I was doing. When I think about it like that I can see how that really did hurt me. To think as a child that you are not who your people know you to be. It means something different than it would mean now. Because as children we believe that these grown mature people towering over us surely must know something about who we actually are. Surely their time on Earth has been longer and they must know something.

We should all be able to remember a time when we were told, “This isn’t like you.”

How is something not like you? If you are doing it, then it must be like you. What they meant was that it did not match the myth that they had constructed of you in their own heads. I’ve always been the person I knew me to be. The only reason I did something unlike me was because it happened to be a trait I had that they ignored. Until they could ignore it no more.

I now know that these myths, anecdotes, and the common built-in expectations harmed me. They somewhat stunted my progress as a human. I hated things about myself because of what they represented to other people. My name was not just my name. It was a label indicating that I was secondary and “like my father.” It did not speak to the individual I insisted I was. And due to that it expected me, a flamboyant homosexual, to be strong and manly. Therefore I hated my label and therefore my gender. I hated its connection to masculinity and shunned anything presented in the masculine tense. This hatred stopped me from experiencing and learning normal everyday things. For example, as an angry teenager I refused to change my car’s oil or pump my own gas because the society I was raised in said it was a man’s job. I refused to do a man’s job because I refused to be a man if being a man meant everything I was told it meant. To me at that time it meant being something I wasn’t.

I created the persona of who I knew I was and I made sure it was very distanced from the mythology of “a normal boy from a poor farming community.” Instead I would be a glamorous transgender woman (looking back it was more transvestite), an individual, an artist, a raconteur and provocateur. It would service my ego, my lust and sexuality, and banish who they insisted I must be. That person I was before I could even remember being a person.

There was rarely a time throughout all of my youth (0-30) where I ever considered that I would have to acknowledge my birth identity or any of those masculine labels society had placed. I went to school, but that wasn’t really me. At home behind closed doors was when I was me. I went to work at a normal day job but when I came home the wigs flew out of the closet, the martini was poured, and I was living My Authentic Self online for millions of people to adore. Picture the story of Bat Girl from Batman. By day she was Barbara Gordon, the police commissioners quaint daughter, and at night she came home to a closet that secretly revolved to display a wardrobe of masks, spandex, and “interesting implements.” She was not really Barbara Gordon. She was Bat Girl.

Part of my ongoing transition from whatever I was to whatever I am now was the realization that it was all based upon a myth I accidentally believed. We are impressionable children being told stories about our past and our future. What the hell else are we going to believe?

When I legally changed my name it was on the heels of slowly acknowledging that I was going to be the person I knew myself to be, 24/7. I came to the horrifying realization that I might always have a day job and that I wouldn’t be prancing around in stilettos for the rest of my life. I wanted to build relationships with people from the world of daylight just as I had from my preferred world of darkness. And I could not do that while carrying around labels I absolutely knew I was not. There is this invisible barrier when you have to explain who you’re pretending to be vs. who you actually are. Then you’re friends adopt that same policy. They start to explain you to their friends as this great person who has to pretend to be this other person. Bat Girl never talked about Barbara Gordon and vice versa, it was a smart move but it really put a damper on her social life.

People from the streets could not get to know me when there were dozens of labels standing in my way. It’s like living a public double life. There was nothing private about it. And society told me I had to wear all the labels, unless I officially changed them. So, I stripped a few off so my authentic self was a bit more clearer by day as it was by night.

This marked a great psychological change over time. To have people call you something that you want to be called is a game changer. To be treated as the person you display yourself to be instead of the person people were told you were. This is why, among many other things, I can completely understand a person’s need to change their gender, name, identity. It’s not about them hiding who they are. It’s about them becoming what they’ve always been. To shed the mythology is exquisite. It is a psychological breath of fresh air to let a little more of yourself out of society’s bag.

Out of that journey is how I fell in love with being a man. I learned to love myself because I was able to figure out who that actually was. Then I learned to love others. Then others loved me. I learned that men don’t change oil. People change oil. The mythology I bought into as a youngster was that the world I would enter was black and white. Men did one thing. Women did another thing. And growing up in Pennsylvania during the 80’s it was clear that Men were boring and Women were interesting. So, who would want to be a man?

Had they told me that I had a penis and everything else was negotiable, I may have been much more open to the concept of being the man I was. But people didn’t do that. People still don’t do that! “Your name is Joe. You are going to work in a Button Factory. You will have a wife, three kids, and a family. When you were born you were a good kid who loved Jesus Christ and you never cried in church, so you need to stick to that or else we’re going to fuck you up ...”

This alteration does not disqualify the times I wanted to be a woman (or thought I was). It only addresses a constant transition which all humans should be allowed. We are not the babies we once were. We don’t have to be the teenagers we acted out. We do not even have to be the young adults making the same mistakes. We should be allowed great sweeping changes if that’s where the waves take us. We should build our own stories and not believe our mythologies.

The Artist D, October 2018

The Artist D, October 2018

 

*Quote from “Being the First Part: Change the Way to Perceive and Change All Memory,” pg 277 of Thee Psychick Bible

I Have a Reservation

Never be afraid to live your life alone. I swear to you that this may be one of the meanings of life. We emerge from the primordial goo all stuck together as a ball of molecules. We shape into humans. Alone as alone can be in this cosmic thing.

As soon as we leave the womb we start to seek a connection back into the goo. We have not been aware of singularity and are frightened by it. Perhaps that’s what all the crying is about. I believe this is why we forever seek our “other halves” and want to be around tribes. We are nostalgic for the goo we emerged from.

I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before.

But I live this life alone. I am surrounded by lovers, partners, friends, and yet I am still alone. Sometimes I think it’s for the best because there are enough people in my head, any more people would be a crowd.

This is why I don’t hesitate to say, “Table for one, please.” At the fanciest restaurants around. The kind where the waiter tries not to look at you “like that” as he shuffles you to the small group of tables “for one.”

The overheard conversations of others keep my attention and I am not required to interact with them. That is an added bonus. I get dinner and a show all thanks to the theater of the living.

Sometimes I will glance over at the empty chair across from me and get that human twinge of self pity. How nice would it be if a friend was here with me? It would be nice, but it wasn’t meant to be at this time and in this place. Maybe a friend will join me next time.

Besides, if I was here holding court and entertaining a friend, I never would have got to listen to the lady at the next table seriously discussing aliens being trapped in volcanoes. Did you know that when the volcano erupted the bits and pieces of alien bodies blew everywhere? And since they had nowhere to go they absorbed into the humans all around them. Which is why, I assume, she thinks we are all made up of extraterrestrials.

The only down side to listening to other people’s conversations is the usual social restriction of not being able to plunk myself down at their table and say, “Please, do tell me more!” Although in some cases this would be perfectly alright.

Don’t hold back from going it alone. Make the reservation, treat yourself solo. Take you and all of your imaginary friends out to dinner sometime. This may be the only time our souls, spirits, and molecules are alone together. Take advantage of that, do not wallow in it as if it were a prison sentence.

Be bold alone as you would be with others. We’ll all be together again soon in a big dump of gooey ooze anyway. Where, if I am correct about any of this, we will never be able to reserve that table for one again.

The Artist D

The Artist D, June 2018

The Damnable Hum

And I hear the sounds of silence. That which is not silent at all. The rustle of the trees, dry and crisp in true Summer. The birds and creatures making little noises. But no hum. No damnable city-like hum. Only the sound of the truth.

I’ve been driving for a little under five hours and it feels like I just left. All I can figure is that this is the sign of unwinding a very tightly coiled self. I listen to books, podcasts, and music as I go. And it really helps shake me back to who I really am. Or at least who I presume myself to be.

This time it feels like I could do with five more hours before arrival. Five more hours of podcasts and books. That’s how much coil is left within to be shaken. Either that or I’ve finally acclimated to traveling far distances, again. I had ceased distant travel many years ago and eventually became impatient with it.

It is hot, but delightfully so. I have missed this so much. This time it may take me four full days to fully explain. To rattle out the words onto the paper and into the typer.

I run into a lot of people here who have very strange conversations with me. They’re small town people and I think they can sense that I am just a little off. I’m not a tourist, but I don’t live here. They ask me if I’m from here. They ask if I live around here. I tell them every time, “No, do I look familiar?” And they say, “Nah.” Then I ask why they would ask in the first place and they add, “It’s nothin’.”

It is nothing. It’s the void that I have which most people don’t. It’s that I am so very much and I have depth, yet I’m hardly a functioning human. At least, I don’t function like most of the humans. I’m some strange observer from a distant land. It’s that extraterrestrial within me that shines to the people out here.

People stop me and have conversations about their slipped disks or their desire to be transgender. This is not with any previous introductions as to who I may be! They simply open up. I think they just know. I’m not like all the others and I’ll understand, “for some reason.”

The wind rustles through this bushy field. There are leafy trees, burnt trees, and those magical looking stocks with fuzzy things on the ends. They sway and they glisten in the sunshine like a slow motion dream. A bird with a super bright yellow belly is sitting on a twig staring at me. We may know each other from another time and place too.

I sit here like I am in a dream. My happy place. My landscape.

I was talking to my psychic this morning and she asked me what my landscape was. What geography do I connect with? I love the way that she put that. I connect with many geographies and this is one of them. The flat dry Wild West. The rolling red mountains sprouting up among all of these slow motion weeds. The empty horizon. The empty towns. The lack of people and the lack of that damned hum.

I also connect with the ocean. Raging and wet as it beats against the land, sanding it down slowly throughout forever after forever. I love the ocean. It’s safe out there. At least as safe as floating in space with no man or woman to burn horrors into your spirit.

I come here like I go there. I escape the humming city walls and go off to these places where I cannot, for some unknown reason to me, live permanently. The universe keeps me locked up in that damned city. But I come here or there or somewhere just like I drift off into another dream. In my mind I float to magical lands. In my meat suitcase I venture to them.

The Artist D

The Artist D, June 2018

 

Originally posted at Fourculture.com, August 22, 2017

Quentin Crisp and I in a Bunker

Last night I had a dream I was sharing an underground bunker with Quentin Crisp and a war was raging above us by two female armies.

One faction was a Nazi-like army of women and the other was an Amazonian type. We were in the underground bunker which was actually an underground stage floor of a dance club.

We decided there was nothing else better to do than sit around and watch the armies above. “The art of being,” Quentin chided.

I realized that I should take selfies with Quentin Crisp because in this dream I knew he was already dead. Since he was here with me and currently alive we took advantage of the situation. I took photos with my old digital camera from the nineties, a very small silver Nikon.

Eventually Michael Musto from The Village Voice showed up and then he took our picture too!

Later as the war waged on above us the shots began to fire through the windows. The bunker slowly morphed into more like a basement type of building, so there were suddenly windows up high near the ceiling. Sometimes bullets came flying through the walls at us.

Sooner than later I had to go up above ground to get some supplies. I remember climbing this long gritty stairway to a rusty basement door that swung open onto the surface. Amanda Lepore was there to greet me. She was dressed glamorously as she always is. I got the supplies and then took Amanda down into the club so we could all could take selfies with Mr. Crisp.

Quentin, Amanda, and I all understood this was a unique situation due to the dream space that suddenly had been provided. We knew we had to take advantage of this unique opportunity together.

The female armies were quickly closing in and the bullets were starting to nick our shoulders, arms, and legs. There was beginning to be nowhere to hide. Everyone in the bunker was now injured and bleeding. We knew that before long the underground would be dead.

All at the same time we looked at each other and realized the metaphor right before I woke up.

The Artist D

The Artist D, July 2018

Death of Passivity

I have always loved the ocean because it speaks to life. The ocean is a visual representation of life as I see it. I’ve often described the need to flow with the cosmic waves. If you become too stuck, too solidly stubborn against the waves, you will suffer more friction and destruction than if you were to just “go with the flow.” Much like how with struggle it becomes much easier to drown.

We creatures float through the galaxy like objects in the sea. All of the swirling, floating, and interweaving is critical for it to make a masterpiece. It’s a chaotic dancing stew, yet it all seems to work out for the best. The tide comes in and washes over the rocks to clear off some creatures while feeding others. If you happen to be one of these clam-like creatures you actually depend on it. You don’t really swim. You float, you’re buried, you’re uncovered, you live. It’s the Art of Being. Clams need not do anything other than be themselves while their environment carries them to live the life that they happen to live.

I think you will be taken care of whether you decide to swim or float in this universe. There is a place for both. However, we should not hold ourselves back when it comes time to paddle our feet to get us to the next place.

For most of my life I have often held myself back from swimming. I opted instead to float. I’ve let the waves of the universe carry me to some pretty great places. With that in mind I have always hesitated to start swimming in another direction.

I have feared changing course in life just about as much as I would fear changing course in the literal ocean. I am afraid to start purposefully swimming towards better land only to end up in one of those tidal wave storms which puts you farther away. Then you’re clinging to a plank, pissed off, and dying of hypothermia.

There’s also a big difference between swimming and flailing your arms violently until the ocean of our universe pulls you under into death. I see a lot of people confuse the two of these all of the time, literally and figuratively. Especially figuratively! There is an incredible amount of people out there struggling violently against the waves, gasping for air, and they have no idea. They’d tell you that they’re swimming. I’d tell them that they’re sinking.

If you float when you could swim you are being passive, possibly too passive. I am guilty of being passive at times when I should have been ravenously paddling. I’ve let people in my life just because they happen to have come into it. I’ve let a lot of things happen to me just because they were happening. It’s the pile of drugs you take just because they happen to be on the coffee table. It’s the sex you have just because the person happens to be all over you. It’s the job you take just because they hired you. It’s the first husband or wife you marry because they were the first one to put up with your cranky ass.

For far too long I was under the impression that this was the way it worked. In a lot of ways that can work, but it will not always be the way and you should not always accept it as such.

There is nothing wrong with making decisions. There is nothing wrong with saying “no” when you don’t want something. The same goes for if you want to say “yes” to something. There’s actually nothing wrong with asking for what you want! This is simple and obvious, yet completely unbelievable to a lot of people.

I was one of those people. That personality is still buried within me. If the opportunity came along then we might as well do it. If the opportunity did not come along then let’s forget about it. There wasn’t much push to obtain the opportunity. There wasn’t a lot of swimming against the current.

I deceptively resembled a person who took chances because I did take chances – passively. I blindly threw myself off of a lot of cliffs and hoped for the best. That’s where my faith in the flow of the universe stems from. That’s where I got terribly confused about being a drifter, never decidedly swimming to the desired opportunity.

This is why I had absolutely no understanding of college students. To put yourself in an eight year program with a belief that you are actually going to get to the end is as likely as swimming a straight line in a hurricane. Do you know how much can change in eight years? Do you know how much you probably will never want to do in eight years what you are doing today? I could not fathom the desire to do anything of the sort. For me, a one year plan was quite enough because I knew that at the end of that plan I’d be ready for a completely different map.

The only thing that has changed my mind about long term planning is finally capturing some realization about the hurricane in between. If we are open to changes of course during our plans then it makes sense. It turns out that most people understood this. I was far too black and white to see it until now.

The dawning realization has been that it’s OK to make hard choices. It’s OK to decline an invitation or disagree with an associate. We learn this even more when we are placed in management of others or owning a business. That can be learned from the corporate world or from managing an underground art magazine. Are you ready to have difficult conversations with people you may not like? Are you going to cope with the disagreement when your word is the final word? Are you OK with pointing out things that someone else may have absolutely no clue about? Would you be willing to fire someone for their shitty behaviors?

We do not always need to float. We are not all clams. We are allowed to decide on a course of action which may not be easy, but doable, if we have working arms, legs, or a giant propeller for a nose. The balancing act is to learn when to stop driving your boat into the Tsunami. The secret is to know the difference between swimming and flailing.

The Artist D, Autumn 2017

The Artist D, Autumn 2017, Beating a Metaphor to Death since circa 1997

Ancient Thoughts on Net Neutrality from an Original Internet Superstar

Preface  I know exactly what Net Neutrality is and the danger of living without it. I understand the difference between websites and ISPs. This article is a bitter old Net Queen’s unabashed ranting for people to get off of her lawn.

The overall reaction to the repealing of Net Neutrality has left me in confusion. People act as if it is the end of the Internet that they know today. They are posting memes on Facebook with the ridiculous spin of, “It’s been nice knowing you!”

The mass populace probably has nothing to worry about because they are already the almighty consumers of corporate crap. They’ve been eating what the mass media has been feeding them since 2004. That’s roughly the year I recall where the true Internet underground fell off the map and was replaced with a steaming pile of dog shit. It’s been down hill ever since and a look back in my blog can remind us that I’ve been saying so all of the way.

With the repealing of Net Neutrality ISP’s will be able to further control what you see. As if you’ve had a problem with that lately since all you have been looking at was Facebook, Tumblr, and Gmail. Without Net Neutrality you may have to pay to watch Netflix or Amazon Prime, kind of like we already do. To your astonishment now that Net Neutrality is possibly gone you may find some websites blocked from your view! Just like Facebook blocks you from seeing most of my posts linking you to my website or Internet live streams. Unless I pay Facebook, that is. Just like a country blocks you from content if you have a specific IP address outside of that country. Unless you pay for a VPN tunnel. Hmm, yes, it’s going to be so unfair, just like it already is.

The people it will hurt are people you haven’t cared about for years! You’ve already enabled the corporations to steamroll over the content creators and independent underground artists by allowing the Internet to become what it already is before, during, and after Net Neutrality. YouTube single-handedly put beautifully articulate content creators in a bind in favor of monetizing vanilla bullshit. Oh, but, without Net Neutrality it will allow the ISP’s to be unfair! As unfair as the corporations owning the websites already have been. It’s just another level of unfair frosting to the unfair cake.

It’s all just crushing the little guy a little bit more than we already were. But you didn’t care about him or her or them anyway! The Fourculture Magazines of the world are just going to be a little more strangulated. The underground zines and that unpopular YouTube shows will still be just as neglected, demonetized, and regulated to the corners. You have nothing to worry about because there will still be Netflix, Amazon, Facebook, and probably even Tumblr porn. You have nothing to worry about, almighty consumer, because for the Internet to exist at a profit they must continue to provide you with the bullshit you already consume! They are probably not plotting to take away your Netflix. They’re plotting to take away your indie underground artist whom may dare to turn a buck without giving a cut to The Man.

They’ve been erasing people like me from the day they found out the Internet was a profit center. That was the day it all started to burn to the ground. And that was a long time ago.

I am asked if I am upset about the changes regarding Net Neutrality and I’ll tell you that I was upset before and after! It has nothing to do with Net Neutrality making things better or worse. It already was shit before they got started. It was shit when we, the content creators, were pushed into the margins and our hits were reduced to nothing as people began to flock to the corporate cannibals. It was shit when the gates were opened and a global population logged on to make the Internet just like everything else. And worse yet, to make it a part of society!

I already pay a premium for my personal outgoing Internet speeds. I already pay extra for faster web service to bring my content to you at a decent downloadable speed. I already have to pay Facebook if I want it to share my project links with all of the people who want to see them. This all in a world of Net Neutrality! What’s so neutral about it as it currently is? Even my YouTube videos get demonetized and hidden away in favor of the corporate content, right now in a world with Net Neutrality.

Without Net Neutrality the ISP will be able to limit your access to websites. Websites that are already limiting your access to the content upon them. That sounds like another level of bullshit to me.

All I’m hearing are a lot of people complaining that they might have to pay more for their entertainment. Well, they never paid me much for mine, so I’m not particularly dismayed that they’re now screwed by The Man. You welcomed The Man into this box and you let him survive. You could have left him behind in the terrestrial world with antennae and television tubes, but you brought him into the Internet. You let him load us up with shows and incorporate all of his records and paper pileup into our circuits. You let him destroy the organic artistic freedom that once was and now you’re upset that he’s charging admission. Potentially a steep admission!

It seems there is a fear that with the repealing of Net Neutrality we may lose some people from the Internet. But if you ask old Internet Superstars like me, well, we’ve been waiting for the mass populace to get the fuck off of the Internet since 2004. It’s been a shithole since and it’ll be a shithole with or without the Neutrality. You’ve got nothing to worry about Almighty Consumer, because they need your money. They don’t need my art.

It’s funny how much you realize you can live without something once you’ve had everything that it can offer. At times like these people like me are aching to get back to our flip phones and 5 AM newspaper deliveries. I would not have ever wanted to live my life without the Internet, but now that it has become all that it is, I think I could do without it.

The Artist D, December 2017

The Artist D, December 2017

Yes & No

I’m so uncomfortable everywhere I go. A lot of my discomfort seems to be the need to warm back up into being a real person. There’s a certain way to act at a job which is actually easier than being in the real world. Everything at work is very scripted for us. The answers to “Do you want to / Would you please / Can you help me out / Will you take the time to …” are all automatic responses crafted due to the relationship with the colleague whom asked the question. This is much easier than reality. Reality puts people on a level playing field.

For example, saying “no” to a colleague is easier because that “no” comes from a place of work culture. I am allowed to say “no” because I am perhaps their boss or I have some kind of seniority which puts me in a position to logically be unable to assist. Generally, I have permission from a pretend hierarchy within a pretend organization to act a certain way, carte blanche.

Until recent years I’ve had very limited personal interaction with the real world. My world was my own and nobody was involved unless I allowed it, like a boss. I did not have local friends asking local favors. I did not have a husband or a wife to consider and was singularly in control of everything I did in my free time, my reality. I could not own a pet animal because they would demand of me food in their bowls and regularly petting. I built a world all my own to meet my demands and escape those of others.

Telling a person “no” in the real world is nothing like telling this to a person in work culture. There are no rules in the real world, or at least there are not supposed to be any rules. When I find myself out there with people I am initially awkward because I am still operating under professional standards.

Perhaps this is best explained by defining what “yes” or “no” actually means in reality. These responses are the result of our actual desires and for me this feels a bit harsh. In the professional world “yes” or “no” are actual fakes. Professionally we are all frauds. I am not cooperating because I want to but because the professional hierarchy tells me if I can or cannot. As most of us should agree we are all at work against our will doing things we would rather not do. If you asked a person if they really wanted to go to work at 7 AM every morning and they were allowed to be honest, the answer would often be “no.” But since we are trapped within a societal requirement in exchange for money the answer is usually “yes.”

Therefore when I find myself finally free from the chains of corporate bondage I am at a loss for words. It takes me days worth of being around real people with real hopes and dreams to remind me that I can now truly speak my mind and make honest choices. It’s learning to walk again after a violent tragedy. Corporate America is a cannibalistic violent tragedy. I think most people sum this up as Social Anxiety. They actually fear the freedom they suddenly feel when left outside of the structure. I do not feel anxious. I just feel confused.

It’s about the true meaning of answering a question. Your friends ask, “How are you?” Your answer is staggered because you have been in the Thunderdome for so long you aren’t sure what your true answer really is. Because your co-workers, colleagues, associates, managers, bosses, and political fuck buddies have asked, “How are you?” all week and you’ve responded with an earnest smile, “I’m great! How are you!?” Because that’s how it’s done in the Thunderdome. That’s the script given from the classes you’ve attended.

What’s worse and really tips this over the edge is that people in professional circumstances actually believe it. They really think you want to be there. They honestly think you’re doing great. They truly believe you like them as a person and want to attend Happy Hour after professionally slaving away for nine hours alongside of them. They believe it, so you believe it and pretty soon it’s the most fake circle jerk you’ve ever involved yourself in.

When becoming free of those chains I am left with a curious wonder about how I am. How am I? How am I really? Well, I do not know because I then realize I’ve been answering myself with the same cheery script. I’m in the circle jerk. I have become my own colleague. So, how am I really, for real? I don’t know. I do not know! It takes days to know. To wake up from the coma of this planet’s customer service epidemic. I’m great. I’m good. I’m well. I am in a rage. I am angry. How are you?

It’s that emotional explosion that happens when you finally cry. To weep if you are not a person who weeps. It’s that thing that happens when you relax and watch a sad movie. That thing when you are really into it and are overtaken with true emotion from this touching film. That moment where there are tears on your face and you are whaling with sound, but you are still disconnected. There is nothing but a feeling of mon capitaine in your head as if he or she was a disconnected observer. Who is crying? Who is whaling with this screaming sad rage? T’is not I. T’is the body I inhabit. I am fine. “I’m great! How are you?!”

To tell a person “no” in reality actually holds water. It actually means “no.” That’s a “no” from me, the real me, the person I think I am. No, I do not want to do that. No, I actually do not want to. And that is strong. That is unscripted. Maybe this is why rapists think “no” means “yes,” because in corporate America it actually does!

To actually say it and mean it is so out of style. To not say it because it’s what people say or do. That is an individual making a decision whether it’s in response to grabbing a cheeseburger with a friend or helping them load the U-Haul van for their move. That is a decision! That is terrifying because it means truth between human beings!

Whether it is “yes” or “no” it is sharing truth and we are not as used to that as we used to be. It’s rather ironic that we seem to live in a world that is more rude today than ever before. You’d think more people told the truth and hurt those feelings more now than ever. At the same time it doesn’t. It feels more fake now than ever. Perhaps because it’s all very black and white. There is less room for gray in a world which demands more gray by law. There are 58 gender options on Facebook and people are more unhappy with their labels than ever before. We are either too honest or too fake. The customer service is not earnest. It never quite was, but it is less now than ever before. It’s just a script. It’s just brainwashing.

How are you? I don’t fucking know. Do you really care? Let’s go get a coffee and talk it over. Let’s run off under the waterfall to make real decisions with each other. Let’s decide if we really want to get a cheeseburger or let’s be big about it if one of us honestly hates cheeseburgers. Love me for my erratic emotional behavior and enjoy the unscripted mind. Let’s shake ourselves out of the scripted choke hold and remember what “yes” and “no” really mean.

The Artist D, May 2017

The Artist D, May 2017

Youthquake

We are always sixteen and I am not much better than He. I got locked into a certain style of step somewhere around the age of 15. That’s when I was engraved.

I found me between 15 to 17 years and have been working on Him, Her, and It ever since.

Some people grow up. Some people stay too young at heart. I know some fellows who have a baseline of about 8 years old as they head into their 60’s. I am no better. I have remained a teenager. My baseline is angsty teen. I am in love with being against the Lemmings.

The other day I was hiking down a steep cliff in the woods. I wanted to get down to the furiously rushing river beneath. It was a fenced off area where people aren’t supposed to go. There were all of these deterrents at the top. I saw a fence, some wire, big yellow pointy signs with stick figures in peril. All indicators which translate to, “Try me.”

I carefully climbed down the embankment, strategically choosing each foothold. While I did this some passersby stopped to observe. They too saw my goal of rushing river water down below. Once I safely got to the bottom I sat on a rock to do what my angsty internal teen loves to do. I sat and thought.

As I sat and thought about thinking I eventually heard a screaming panic coming from behind me. The people who were watching at the top were now tumbling downward to the bottom.

“Oh no. My ankle!” The Lemming screamed.

You may better understand me if you were ever fortunate enough to play the Lemmings game on 3.5″ floppy disc (Lemmings © PSYGNOSIS 1991). The computer game where you lead adorably cute piles of green-haired Lemmings to their death off steep cliffs.

I calmly observed the pile of tourists who now lay at the base of the cliff rubbing their ankles and emptying dirt out of their shoes. Battered and bruised they picked themselves back up to complete taking selfies for Instagram.

This is what I am against. They go to work. They go to school. They take selfies. They climb unstrategically. They have no problem dedicating 92.5% of their entire existence to an algebraic equation which has a lot of factors all equaling zero.

This is why I am always sixteen. I do not prescribe to that and I will never accept it as the right thing, even if it is a thing I have to do. I’ll do your thing, but I don’t have to like it.

They accept it and go with the flow. They sign up for adulthood and I run the other way. They buy a V-Neck Shirt while I get a pair of scissors to make my own. They tumble while I strategically climb downward.

My baseline is sixteen. My brain is set to punk. It is the fountain of youth. I love being petty. I adore finding the anger and the angst. To be anti-society and inexcusably horny, with some blended ADHD bipolar youthquake forever brewing against becoming a Normal Lemming. To rage against tumbling down the cliffs of adulthood to their boring lead-lined coffins.

To sit on a rock where I am not allowed to think and think about thinking.

The Artist D's Rushing River, February 2017

The Artist D’s Rushing River, February 2017