elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, November 30, 2002
she comes and goes II
only rock & roll
om mani padme hum
3:22 PM | link |
she comes and goes...
I was just looking for something else on my hard drive. Something a
little more recent, though not unrelated. Don't ask. Instead, I found
this email I sent to David Weinberger in mid-98. Believe it or not
(actually do), this was a precursor to our initial conversations that
led to The Cluetrain Manifesto. David should in no way be implicated in necessarily sharing these odd notions.
He does, however, have a pretty good rap on the Talmud as early hypertext. I offer the following historical artifact FWIW.
YMMV. I would not frame these ideas the same way today, though I
still entertain them in modified form. Some say
she's like a rainbow...|
From: Christopher Locke [firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Thursday, July 02, 1998 10:18 AM
To: David Weinberger
Subject: the web and the rock
> I'll be on The Vineyard learning how to properly drape a
> sweater over my shoulders with a single knot of the arms
> around my neck.
sounds so... Jay Gatsby. perhaps a little polo? or at
the longing. when we first talked about this I invoked a
Buddhist perspective. historically, early Buddhism -- the
Theravadan or Hinayana school -- saw Passion, Aggression
and Ignorance as the big-three "poisons" -- and calls them
such. Passion = desire of all kinds, not just sexual,
although any monastic setup sees that as a primary big
deal. I'm not well versed in the history (or the
philosophy; it's deep and voluminous) but by the 5th-6th
century CE (i.e., 1000 years after Gautama Buddha) proto-
desire begins to be seen as bodhicitta -- literally, the
seed of awakened mind -- essentially same desire as the
poison "variety" and thus the foundation of the non-duality
that will later flower as the Vajrayana in Tibet. I learned
this not from books but from a teacher in the direct lineage
of that tradition, Chogyam Trungpa (who is dead now but
has reincarnated on amazon.com).
I have certainly never talked about this in email, rest
shift gears/change metaphors.
much of the best 60s rock-n-roll always struck me as
colored by this non-duality, at least to a degree. it was
the acid surely; it could have been just me, I suppose,
but the artists were coming from the same place, as we
might have said back then. one of the deepest resonnances
involved sex-as-something-else. at the same time it wasn't
not-sex. here's what I mean. when Hendrix sang...
I have only one burning desire
let me stand next to your fire
...was he (just) talking about some chick? this music
could easily accompany the iconography of Vajrayogini,
consort to Vajradhara, embodiment of primordial, awakened
heart. in this iconography, the two are usually depicted
the eastern stuff turns many off -- and for god reason;
it's mixed up with silly notions of brain-dead happy-go-
lucky mystical bullshit filtered through tripsters and
hucksters who never had a clue. but go back to hundreds,
thousands of rock references to sex, love and desire and
you will find this "other" dimension. it's what gave the
music a depth almost unrelated to the doo-wah girlfriend
ballads of the 50s.
don't you want somebody to love
don't you NEED somebody to love
you better find somebody to love...
one of my favorites from the period is little known now
but an amazing anthem from the Kinks:
As long as I gaze on Waterloo Sunset
I am in paradise.
Every day I look at the world from my window...
or the Beatles' Day Tripper
got a good reason for taking the easy way out...
it took me so long to find out... I found out.
she's a big teaser...
maybe it was just a backseat liaison, but I never heard it
that way. the "Day Tripper" of the song is, after all, a
pun, an allusion to some other instantiation. Lenon was
famous for precisely this kind of thing. Closer to Joyce
than Elvis. there are better examples than I've used here.
The girl with kaleioscope eyes perhaps. follow her down to
a bridge by a fountain...
and later, the Police in "Every Little Thing She Does is
Magic" are singing bhyo over and over in the background.
this is a tantric seed-sylable associated with mandala
construction and other stuff I can only guess at. I
doubt Sting knew much about it either, but it's not
there by accident I think.
even though my life before was tragic
now I know my love for her goes on...
closer to the present, U2's Desire...
Yeah, lover I'm on the streets
Gonna go where the bright lights and the big city meet
With a red guitar, on fire,
She's the candle burning in my room
I'm like the needle - needle and spoon
Over the counter with a shotgun
Pretty soon, everybody got one
And the fever when I'm beside her
She's the dollars
She's my protection
She's a promise
In the year of election
Sister, I can't let you go
I'm like a preacher
Stealing hearts at a traveling show
For love or money, money, money
Bono is shaped, above all, by Irish Catholism. "She moves in
mysterious ways" -- yeah, that's probably his steady date.
The "she" of Desire is the same dark goddess of the Stones'
Heartbreaker, pain maker
I'm gonna tear your world apart...
...Kali, the terrifying dark side of the mother archetype.
still, she is The Beloved -- source of life and object of
all longing when enough layers are scratched away.
this obviously goes a little deeper than the web, but it's
what we long for. though few might admit it, it's what we
seek everywhere and seldom find.
her eyes were clear and bright
her voice was soft and cool
but she's not there...
see her shake on the silver screen.
god, I gotta stop doin this shit. and no, I'm not sure what
it means. if it means anything.
in the darkest night,
1:51 PM | link |
Thursday, November 28, 2002
Bag & Baggage Turns One
4:04 AM | link |
The NY Times on Blog Sisters - A Mixed Bag
It's wonderful to see Jeneane Seessum and Blog Sisters hit the bigtime. However, this article is flawed in so many ways. It's unfortunate, for instance, that the goal of one of the women bloggers chosen -- as representative of the blog scene in general we are given to presume -- is to cook every dish in a Julia Child cookbook. Cool, I suppose, but hardly a great leap forward for women online. Out of the frying pan and into... the kitchen? And why all the references to knitting blogs? This is an article about women finding their voices on the web? Excuse me? And why the same old warblogger hit magnets, all men, with NY Times trackers assigned to them -- and to no women? There's some cogent criticism showing up on the Blog Sisters site, and I'm sure we'll see more before the day is out. I know Jeneane spent a lot of time with the writer, pointing her to various worthwhile sites by both women and men, so the article's muddied thinking and conflicting signals cannot be laid at the door of her informants. Except for maybe Virginia Postrell, of whom I can say no good; I basically hate her dumbbell dynamist/stasist hogwash. But more about Ginny another time perhaps.
This NY Times piece could have been a watershed document; instead, it comes across as sloppy and confused. Too bad. But kudos to the sisters, who much deserve high praise for their flash and sass, balls and brash, and a ton of damn good writing. Personally, I could give a shit about geopolitical harangues and yet another, deeper round of techno-fetishism. If it weren't for what (many) women and (some) men are blogging here about their hearts, their lives, their work in the world at large, their dreams, there wouldn't be a whole lotta reason to log on. Wonderfully, there's plenty of reason, though it may be a little -- oh no! oh dear! -- irrational. But here's an idea: why don't we sing this song all together. Open our heads and let pictures come...
3:39 AM | link |
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Tom Matrullo wrote something today -- blog
saliencies -- that made me think of the following. It's a passage from the introduction to
In addition to being a sort of indie-Indy, I also think of myself as An Amateur and a Dilettante. The caps are there to echo the title of the movie, An Officer and a Gentleman � though as you're already finding out, I'm neither. At its heart, gonzo is animated by an attitude of deeply principled anti-professionalism in the best sense. And there is a best sense. Historian and former Librarian of Congress Daniel J. Boorstin once wrote: "Democracy is government by amateurs.... The survival of our society depends on the vitality of the amateur spirit.... The representative of the people...must be wary of becoming a professional politician.".
Here, amateur clearly doesn't mean incompetent or unskilled. It doesn't mean unprofessional. But professional-ism is something altogether else. Over time, any functional specialization tends to forget its relationship to the larger social context it was created to work within and serve. Instead, it concentrates on developing an inner sanctum of specialists who talk among themselves in a private language inaccessible to outsiders. Almost without exception, such professionals despise amateurs. Or worse, accord them a patronizing form of faux eye-rolling patience.
Related to "amateur" is the even more pejorative term "dilettante" � someone who practices a craft or studies a field of knowledge in which he or she is not a "recognized professional." But the etymological roots of these words tell a different story. Amateurs do what they do for love (from the Latin amare), while dilettantes are not mere casual dabblers, but instead are inspired by delight (from the Italian dilettare by way of the Latin delectare). But delight and passion for the work are precisely the qualities professionals tend to lose first. The opposite of professionalism is what Zen master Shunryu Suzuki called "beginner's mind" � an ability to look at the world with fresh eyes and an open spirit..
Boorstin's observation can be equally applied to the commercial sphere. In marketing, just as in government, professionalism tends to hew unimaginatively to its own timid orthodoxy. It does not provide leadership, enthusiasm or the kind of impassioned personal engagement that has come to be called gonzo. In stark contrast, business professionalism tends to be arid and passionless, narrowly focused, self-involved. However, this doesn't mean that everyone in business fits this damning characterization. Far from it. In my own experience, there are many more lively intellects at work in the workplace than the misbegotten "corporate communications" coming out of those places would lead one to believe. There's often more going on in today's corporation than today's corporation would care to admit. New life is growing between the cracks in the corporate edifice, and it's spreading like a weed.
...I round the corner in Covent Garden and hear what sounds like Coltrane wafting up the block. Bent into his horn as if in fervent prayer, a musician is laying down fat splashy bop notes in the rain, punctuating the oblivious crowds of pre-Christmas shoppers. His saxophone case is open for donations and I drop in a ten pound note. He's surprisingly good to be playing in the street. Seeing the denomination, he jumps up and presses a compact disc into my hand. I turn it over. Karlsax Online it says.
3:28 PM | link |
Rebel without a pause
There are days, today being one of them, when I feel called upon to justify myself as something more than a mere online prankster. This may be impossible, I tell myself, perhaps too late. Perhaps I've devolved to a degree that there's no coming back. I worry deeply about this between bouts of maniacal cackling. It must have been more than a little obvious to those who bother reading this blog and my decreasingly frequent EGR sends that this year has indeed taken its toll on my mental and spiritual faculties. Some ask if I've gone mad. In the past, I never had to pause and think before answering. Now I find it an interesting question. I can't remember if I was mad before. This is possibly one of those Bad Signs you hear about.
It is at such moments that I often Google back in time, trying to find some semblance of my former self. Like those notes that guy writes on his body in Memento. "You already had a ham sandwich at 4 o'clock. If it's 5 o'clock now, you are not hungry." Anyway, here's a clip from a piece Jack Schofield wrote about me in The Guardian last May before I lost it. On the edge and trying to stay there. In my line of work, that isn't always easy.
For the full article, click on the headline above or The Guardian grafik. Jack, take it away...
Locke went from MCI to IBM, but there he was forbidden from writing or
talking to the press. Bored and frustrated, he started an email newsletter,
Entropy Gradient Reversals. That's where RageBoy was born, pouring scorn on his
employer, and where Locke developed his voice. EGR was read by internet mavens -
it was the only way to find out what he was thinking - but it often had as much
or more to say about sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. The running gag was RageBoy
escaping from his chains, insulting readers, and goading them to unsubscribe,
before Locke managed to regain control and apologise, or not.
It was often very funny, sometimes intensely moving, full of ideas, and
beautifully written. It was, in short, the sort of thing no conventional
publication would allow, but it couldn't be stopped on the web. Locke's response
to IBM had been: "I'll write on the web: these people are so dumb, they're never
going to find it." They did, of course, but as his boss said, "since you quit 30
seconds ago, I don't think there's anything they can do about it".
He went back to Boulder, Colorado, where his love life took twists and turns
as engaging as any soap. "I am trying to live my heart online, and it's dicey,"
he says. "We're giving ourselves permission to act like humans online, and we've
never had that permission before. We fail and we make mistakes and we're broken,
and there's a lot of juice in that. I'm kind of on the edge, and I'm trying to
2:55 PM | link |
About Corante's Copyfight Site
3:06 AM | link |
No Redeeming Social Value (for E. Norlin)
Sure, that's the way it was back then. Get ripped on acid and do oil paintings of buxom sluts. The chicks were dying for another hit of weed, and they'd do anything for it. We'd send them down to the corner store for a giant bag of Oreos and a gallon of ice cream. With munchies like that, who had time for sex? Unless it was meth. Then, sure. All night long. Opiated hash for the crash. Rent was a trip, but the babes all had trust funds, so hey, have another hit of windowpane. C'mere sweetie, let me look into those big blue eyes of yours. Or are they mine? Oh, and fuckin-A look at that, you got six legs now! Aaiiiieee! Goo-goo-ga-joob.
1:34 AM | link |
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
from The Bombast Transcripts
"Wandering barefoot on the Lower East Side of New York,
over a thousand dollars cash in my pocket, looking to score, bring back for the
holy freaks the one good thing. Odysseus adrift. Also in my pocket, the Tarot,
the Waite deck I'd just bought that day. I went into The Eatery on Second
Avenue and my waitress saw the cards. 'I was raised by Gypsies,' she said. 'I
will tell you about the trumps if you like.' I had just dropped another tab and
had little time left, I knew, but she sat with me and pointed to each of the
major arcana, the Lovers, the Fool, the Tower, Death. Then stopped. 'You have
two Magicians,' she said."
7:46 PM | link |
The Bombast Transcripts and Gonzo Marketing have both come out in paperback editions. Just in time for the Holidays! If someone you know is weird (and who doesn't know someone who is) either or both of these would make lovely, thoughtful gifts. Or fuck it, buy 'em for yourself.
from the Introduction: "A certain humility has been lacking of late in American letters. I'm here to change that."
Los Angeles Times: "...fast-talking, rule-breaking, opinionated..."
"...it's Locke's own history as an early artificial
intelligence/cyberspace pioneer that informs his most damning critique
the co-optation of the Internet. In the early days, people who knew
how the Internet worked 'were mainly using it to fuck off We thought
it was important to fuck off.' ... Resurrect William
Burroughs, Charles Bukowski and Ken Kesey, add a dash of Dilbert and that's
Amazon.com: "With The Bombast Transcripts, Christopher Locke (a.k.a.
RageBoy, that iconoclastic cybervoice of dissonance, disdain, and all things
provocative) is leaping from your screen to your bookshelf. Look out. The
scathing rants from the creator of Entropy Gradient Reversals -- probably
the most wittily outrageous, cryptically observant, and eagerly puzzled-over Web
zine ever to pollute the airwaves -- are explosive."
A Harvard Business Review Top-10 Business Book of 2001
An Amazon.com Top-10 Business Book of 2001
"Truth be told, Locke seems more like a social critic or humanist at heart than a
marketing consultant, and his essential disdain for corporations (which are
anti-human, he declares, despite all their philanthropic tootle) leaves the
reader wondering whether he really wants e-commerce to effectively pervade the
Web's truly democratic, populist microcommunities for its own purposes. As his
wonderfully cranky cult Web zine, Entropy Gradient Reversals, and his
alter ego therein, RageBoy, have proven, the man's a smart, witty, broadly read
cyberpundit. In Gonzo Marketing, he tweaks everyone from Disney, Time
Warner AOL, and IBM to fellow biz-book writers like Seth Godin (Permission
Marketing), and if you read it first for its own eclectic, acerbic delights
and second for a postboom e-marketing primer, you'll be rightly pleased."
A Reader: "I once mentioned a book by this author and it got me a job. Mentioning this one
will probably get me a fat lip."
3:32 PM | link |
Monday, November 25, 2002
Lest We Forget...
Winning Through Worst Practices
By Christopher Locke
eDesign Rating: 8.25 out of 10
It's not entirely necessary to channel Hunter S. Thompson before putting Locke's "worst practices" of marketing to work. But the famously wacked-out author—along with Nietzsche, Joseph Heller, and the Blues Brothers, to name a few surprise guests—is the inspiration behind this unconventional business book. The co-author of the wildly successful The Cluetrain Manifesto, Locke lays out his revolutionary marketing agenda with plenty of straight talk, pop culture metaphors, and profanity to hold our attention. (He warns readers from the get-go that this is no "over-the-counter alternative to your regular insomnia medication" like most of its neighbors on bookstore shelves.) But it's not just Locke's writing style that sets it apart from other books of its kind; his ideas—marketing is irrelevant when it comes to the Internet, companies lack the personality to speak in a real way to consumers—are sensible, if shocking. As Locke sees it, the Internet has already created forums for conversations between people of shared passions and interests, so businesses should use their employees to become engaged in the market. Real stories from real people about real enthusiasm are at the heart of the Gonzo approach. Gonzo Marketing is an essential, entertaining read for anyone working in today's Internet business. Review by Stephanie Saulmon
8:40 AM | link |
The Ongoing Debate Over Digital Copyright
I firmly believe in the widespread availability of strong encryption
security technologies. My other interests include civil
liberties and the special problems posed by the
interaction of technology, public policy and the law.
As written, the Digital Millennium Copyright Act
now is being violated by millions of ordinary citizens.
My position is that copyrighted material should be protected
from large-scale unauthorized copying, but not at the expense of
reasonable consumer expectations, nor in ways that hinder innovative communications networks such as the Internet.
My talent is lap dancing.
7:57 AM | link |
Find the Water Opossum!
5:30 AM | link |
An Exercise in Weather Prediction & Semantic Taxonomy
The old woman in her killed a girl who turned into a parrot while
watching July unfold. Lightning killed a man and his jaguar walking to the
store. Faint winter's dawn to one another, we were pointed out
afterwards, asked to remember the river. On her arrival in the
afternoon, she is a treasure that at once seeks the death of those she
loves, and on Thursdays, in control during a storm of
provocative language, using words she prefers along the river's bend tree
sunset cars your jungle your antenna. A girl hit by inauspicious grief,
homespun vignettes of death, got across the river as lightning killed
two others. Highly visual when displayed in the area outside. She
lingers around for birth, will break the boat beyond beginning. He
seems to have embraced blood as a weapon, as a world, as a kind of
wildlife in her vulva, in a voice peculiar to himself. Joy only to
end in a haze of pain, a garden continuing to believe in
afternoon, a mistake he's not inclined to answer for. The cervical
instincts, pilgrimage, the tactile image of the colony lighting cherry
trees on fire, treading that way one last time, dangerous language
protecting pain, a darkly fascinating world. Horse, shark, fox,
disastrous fetal membranes rupture, releasing the doctor. Adventures
in morality must find their death up the creek we lived by. Django
Reinhardt inspired gypsy swing, deliciously, he thinks. That he can
does not speak to everything she loved. Where everyday chocolate
language so much more serious flew over tiger-dolphin-jaguar thinking
of eternity, another way of representing jazz piano. Shattering, life stops at nothing to further
its own fireworks. Simultaneously measuring a snake she has
facilitated with her own obsessive love plants, an injured woman
laments how sacred life still is to her fatal beauty. Lightning his
imprisonment, his ultrasound image, a bitter understanding of the
causes born and ending in a cervical star, a scar, fluorescent
antibodies, this hidden treasure that once sought tragedy. In the
beginning, everything was fine. A weapon a hundred times more deadly
than this awkward mistake. Not willing to see it through until the
story ends that he does not want to end. He thinks he
can encompass what he must preserve, that morality finds its roots in
the vulgar, that merely opening a door is unsatisfactory. He is off to
Memphis. Fox, squirrel, river otter, brown pelican, rat, his eight
persons were treated in Africa for a while, waiting to catch his less
than direct but more passionate love. Yourself the dislodged identity
of slavery, hostile in a thin wedge of mourning. It cannot idle its
coming to an end. Little and little to the killed, he walks along the
beach, every man his man, while seeking the courage to continue. Raven
himself killed by jungle, by lightning, by a tree, by construction
workers while chopping wood. And love? A girl uses her imagination. A
war not just to swear revenge, but therein to find the lurking world
outside. Tuning a TV antenna, he hones her indescribable sorrow to an
edge, to intimacy: the language of murder, incest, perversion,
the luster of gold, not demeaning or tawdry, the murder of oppressive
sorrow. And passion opens the door on a velvety bulb of jungle, the
misery to rest beneath the waves of midday sleep or amnion sea. The
appearance of prayers to the inconsiderate multitude, the first
people, the workers, those who play in their own presentations.
Persevere to the end, when all this death is not the grief
of the she-wolf who ruptures, releasing a girl using her imagination to be
released from three medical fishing reunions. An enormity of heart, a
captivating look into refurbished half-hearted creatures shed away
suddenly, blown apart by tented statues, slowly through the
senseless murder of his sister, this hidden story that I understand
the causes, born and separate, will my interest in familiar
narrative, soul, liar from the beginning, twisted, thirty
year monsoon. An old man on a tractor cutting hay. Others,
the spotted owl, refreshing, the doctor for once not on a trip.
Reciprocal lovemouth of the Tahuayo, their powerful tobacco under a
tin roof trial, the very opportunity, the giving of beauty. He was
going to prove that power over traditionally secured waterfalls had
fallen to thoughts of resignation, both real and hysterical, the end of
joy, the challenge of being alive, jaguars and tigers, horseback
riders. It doesn't pay to be fatalistic. A card turned up, turned down, turned
over, the inhabitants practice treachery while attending a school
picnic. Our unremembering image went to her, became a boat, a wolf.
Tell the story of jazz these days to a child whereof the end in
darkness, the end we would like to concentrate upon, gives us courage
while standing in such innocent obscurity. That we want to end, and sex a jungle, love, that we can
all delight in, a velvet glove a
thousand times more deadly than these iron-fisted dreams. Of the rest you
remember little. The kind words, offhand smiles, the fond goodbyes.
The albatross that crushes out the soul. But that's all right. But that's just you.
A woman out walking is a woman walking easy. Lightning killed a ten year old girl.
You are basking in the
sunlight. Lightning killed one man.
[The text above is the result of concatenating certain subjectively selected phrases from the output of several google queries, which results were thereupon sliced & diced and seriously rearranged, then edited a bit. Not much. Well, no more than necessary. Few words were changed. A handful. OK, a couple fistfuls. However, every attempt was made to preserve the original meaning.]
3:01 AM | link |
Sunday, November 24, 2002
My Other Psychiatrist Is A Weblogger
Let RageBoy show you the town, Little Lady.
Memo from Turner:
you got no car and it's breakin' my heart
but you got a driver and that's a start...
Weren't you at the Coke convention back in nineteen sixty-five?
You're the misbred, grey executive I've seen heavily advertised.
You're the great, gray man whose daughter licks policemen's buttons clean.
You're the man who squats behind the man who works the soft machine.
Come now, gentleman, your love is all I crave.
You'll still be in the circus when I'm laughing
laughing in my grave.
5:28 PM | link |
Saturday, November 23, 2002
Bad For You, No, No!
Swirls of chocolate & smoke, alluring, poisonous...
2:48 AM | link |
Friday, November 22, 2002
"I just sent Christopher Locke a nasty email," blogs one
Jonathon Mays over at Stretching Thought (The pain you feel is the pull on your brain... ). And indeed he did. Well, as one good turn deserves another, we reproduce in full this twisted individual's surly and venomous invective.
Someone has got to start curbing this out-of-control bloggism. And soon.
From: Jonathon Mays [mailto:email@example.com]
Sent: Sunday, December 08, 2002 8:49 PM
Subject: Freakin angel I can't take it--I gotta have it
Dear Mr. Senor Sir Locke (and all his Lockishness)-
I mean the angel thing. Then there is Laurie. Or whatever.
See, whatever is the problem. I need specifics. Man how am
I suppose to do consulting work with your shit when I am
having to BS my way with your BS. It makes for truth
almost. That is exactly what I don't want. I need good
jargon. I need a chart not some fuckin picture of real
life. I dont want to converse with complications. I need
it pointed so I can gossip about it. Then I can feel good
about my own miserable existence. The only thing this
angel bitch is doin is making me drink more. I have even
taken a Tylenol 3. By the way, new James Bond movie has a
bunch of advertising shit in it. 8 mile is like good and
Anyway, I am just saying a bit of this and that. Mainly
cause I wanted to say, "Hi, the name is jonathon (jscott
gecko) and over at www.stretchingthought.com you have
managed to make a friggin difference." Thanks for that
shit. Thanks for letting me curse. No one allows that
anymore. Fuck them.
5:38 AM | link |
Precisely Which Part Of "Yes"
Didn't You Understand?
4:39 AM | link |
2:58 AM | link |
My Paxil Period
For about five months this year, I found myself unable to write anything. More to the point, I was unable to bring myself to publish anything. This is not to say I wasn't engaged in creating a major, if admittedly minimalist, artist's statement. By the time I was up to 60 mg of Paxil per day, this work absorbed my total creative energy, which was approximately 0.00003 neuromicrovolts. I share it with you here for the first time, painfully cognizant that it still does not fully convey all that I was struggling to express in that uniquely challenging timeframe.
1:33 AM | link |
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time people took their vision, their imagination, their dreams and
committed them to paper or clay or cave walls. Vision is made new when it
becomes physical. Without vision being voiced or voice made visible, we are
lost. Nothing changes. Today, paying tribute to what is unseen is an answer to
despair. It makes transformation possible. It is both an act of recognition and
a cry for recognition. There is time left...
I wrote part of that. It was a joy to shape the words together, to say what about that way, do you mean to say this? Until some meaning emerged that felt right to both. So it seemed. Vision voiced and voice made visible. The cave paintings at Chauvet, 30,000 years old. An answer to despair and a cry for recognition. In and around and though these words I wove my contribution to what it appeared we were becoming. Only by acknowledging darkness is it possible to shed any light. So I thought. And still do, though the price has been high. As it turned out, there was no time left. By the date of the workshop this passage describes, we had become strangers.
Some things are too personal, some say, to write about in public. But I have always thought that what we're doing here, one of the things we could be doing, is to show each other what it is to be completley and uncompromisingly human. In Gonzo Marketing I wrote the following bit in the chapter titled The Value Proposition:
Something animated and vital looks out from our children�s eyes.
Whatever it is, we recognize it and know it is precious. Yet except in
rare cases today, that spirit is broken early and irreparably. The
light goes out all too soon. We know, because at some inarticulate and
dimly conscious level, we are those children. We feel the wind of
spirit move us at odd moments, but put it down to nostalgia or
temporary possession by some impractical flight of fancy. We shake it
off and get back to work. Robbed of a voice to speak of these things,
something animated and vital looks out from our own eyes, but only in
rare, unguarded moments -- and even then, wary, circumspect,
suspicious. We let no one see what we fear no one will understand.
These are a couple things I wrote earlier this year. The memory of loss is still raw, unrefined, not yet settled and fixed and filed safely away. I return to these things, to these words and the hope they carried, not to torture myself as some friends (and they are true friends) have suggested, but to remind myself of what my heart can bear, and has. To remind myself of what I will never lose.
Where is the value in this, I wonder? What is the cost? Catching the
light, a flock of pigeons turns through the sky over the highway. I am
driving and remembering and feeling how much is lost, how precious
Monday, February 4, 2002
what I forgot to say tonight
Wednesday, February 6, 2002
what I forgot to say
was how brightly the stars
burned through the trees
in your hidden courtyard
the night so cold
just outside the warmth
of your kitchen
your spirit fire
two candles in the snow.
And me there wondering:
had it been snowing
when last you lit them?
what I forgot to say
was how much at home
I felt at last
in the night that was once
too big, too infinite,
how you had taught me this
how I had listened
all those years
for a sign, a song
even when my heart
could not contain
what I forgot to say
when the only words
I could find to speak
held no memory of you
no faith, no fire
no coal black sky
so deep so dark a dream
what I forgot to say
was that I need to sleep
to take this darkness down
into my heart's own healing
which I did not find today
and failing, let myself believe
cannot be found
under that same moon
that same night wind
in which your candles prayed.
what I forgot to say
so many times
was that my darkness
once a comfort
is no longer
no more familiar
no more a gift
than it ever was.
my hands are empty.
my dreams are broken.
what I forgot to say
under all the words I said
if I am still now
I can hear
a deeper faith.
these broken dreams
these empty hands
opening into a silence
that breaks like dawn.
why my only one
do I forget these things?
how can I tell you then
that I have not forgotten?
somewhere the tree
does not bend or burn
the night does not end
yet morning always comes.
somehow I find
all the ways I need to say
I love you.
I wished tonight that I was Pablo Neruda so I could write
you poetry like that, with windy dark nights and the moon
the color of blood in the river. with old trees blasted by
many winters, yet covered with blossoms in the spring.
with smooth stones and rough wool blankets by a fire dying
slowly under the stars and the warmth of your eyes my last
memory before morning.
12:59 AM | link |
Thursday, November 21, 2002
Angel, I'm going to miss you something awful. Why you feel you need to go to Tierra del Fuego precisely now, just as things were getting so good with us, is beyond me. I can't figure you out. Incidentally, this has nothing to do with the post below. Or with the grafik at the right, which shows George Harrison's first sitar.
12:32 AM | link |
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Think What's Possible
|Maybe the message of this pop-up ad was intentional. Or maybe it was a major marketing fuckup. Who can tell with these people. But two lovers walking on a sunset beach imagining what's possible... as a pitch for genital herpes ju-ju? That's not what I'd be thinking was possible. I dunno. Maybe I'm just not focused enough on safe sex. btw, does anyone out there know if you can get genital herpes on your tongue?
You can? Really? Man, I better get checked right away.
| Muddy Waters is reputed to have once said about Magic Dick, the harmonica
player for the J. Geils Band, "If that white boy eats pussy like he blows harp,
he's a motherfucker!" [In addition to the website linked above, this quote is also cited in Cultural Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know by E.D. Hirsch, Jr..]
11:51 PM | link |
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Pink Floyd, Eminem, Norlin & RB: An Unholy Alliance
sometimes a curse is a sideways blessing.
not always. but sometimes. coyote can wait.
Then again, because there's always a rule that proves the exception, a sideways blessing is often a curse. As is the case with the brilliant new credit-card marketing campaign conceived by Davezilla. You must see this. Namaste!
Plus, I think we need at least one more paragraph's distance from the just awful, tasteless -- and very likely actionable -- material below. Putting a bag over your ex-lover's head, even in jest, is inexcusable. I know. It's just that she's been so fucking mean to me. And yeah, I know, I know already. Guys aren't supposed to whine about this sort of thing. If some woman feels like treating you like homemade shit, that's just the way it's gonna be. Or some man, yeah, yeah, I don't want to start stereotyping or generalized woman bashing here. But have you seen the way they drive? Jesus Christ! Of course, one has to take these things on a case-by-case basis. In this case, the woman was a stuck-up little snot. Can I go to jail for saying that? God, I hope so. I haven't watched TV in two and a half years, and I know the Boulder Country slammer has HBO. But perhaps I'm getting a bit off-track again. What I'm trying to say here is that now that I'm fifty-fucking-five years old, you might expect that I'd have acquired a little wisdom along the way. Sadly, no. Underneath my reserved business-guru persona, I'm just a street punk who crashed the e-commerce party and made off with a nice little piece of loot for telling everybody they were fucked up. In other words, the simple truth. I see no reason I should not apply this demonstrably winning strategy in my personal affairs. What it's come down to for me though is major mid-life decision. Truth or celibacy. Come to think of it, wasn't there a television show called that?
I don't suppose it would help if I said I'm not really crazy, would it? I mean, shit, if I were reading this blog for the first time, and I was a normal person (bear with me here), I'd think whoever wrote it belonged in an institution. I was in one once, but I escaped -- a story my daughter delights in telling her school chums. "Yeah, that's nothing. My dad escaped from a locked mental ward." Maybe I should have stayed. But they were going to turn me in to the cops for the kilo of grass they found stashed under my bed. So, after hiding in the graveyard for a while, it was off to New York. Helluva town. I dunno, I guess I might have made a wrong turn somewhere along the line. But fuck it, you know? And besides, I think this whole mental health thing is way overrated. I mean, it's not like I've killed anybody yet. It's true that I get very very angry sometimes and blog things I feel bad about later. Sometimes right after I stop laughing my ass off, like with the bag thing. Sure it's in bad taste, but do I give a shit? Is a proven sociopath supposed to give a shit? No. That right there would be bad form. I try to at least be predictable so people can get out of my way when they see me getting that certain look. Of course yes, I occasionally do say not very nice things to women I am otherwise fond of going to bed with, and then I can go whole years without getting laid. So like I said, it's a problem. But I'm getting help. I'm working on it. And with the grace of God, by gosh I'm gonna lick it one of these days! btw, what'd you think of the eye chart? Who would have guessed the font was Rockwell something or other. Not me. That part alone took about three hours. Hey, if it's all the same to you, I'm logging off now. I haven't slept in about 59 hours and I'm getting trails from the meds. I thought this shit was supposed to make you better, but look at me. I'm a wreck. My nerves are shot, I can't get any action, and I suddenly think everything is funny. Frankly, I'm getting a little worried myself.
10:59 PM | link |
1:44 PM | link |
Monday, November 18, 2002
Still Hallucinating After All These Years
"There is a tribe of native Mexicans, the Huichol, who live in the
mountains surrounding Banderas Bay. They continue to live in pretty
primitive conditions, and follow a very rigorous spiritual life. They
use peyote and other hallucinogens to achieve a dream state, and
produce fantastic artwork depicting their dreams."
So write my good friends Michael and Catharine Whitby, great
aficionados of the sea,
as you can see. They always drop in at EGR's Yucatan HQ when
they're cruising down this way. As my entire staff consists of Huichol
Indians (except for the Eurasian serving girls), there's always plenty
of peyote and
ayahuasca floating around. We're usually all so tripped out we
don't know whether we're here in the Yucatan or on some other planet.
Personally, I have this recurring fantasy that I live in Boulder,
Colorado, and was once involved with some artist there who was
convinced she was Cleopatra's second uncle once removed. Actually,
once removed, she stopped having this strange effect on me, and the
Colorado hallucinations have pretty much ceased to be a problem. I do
have quite a large number of these Frigate birds flying around inside my
office, so that helps with the orientation. It's a spacious office.
I'd say more, but it's time for my daily shock treatment.
3:11 PM | link |
Sunday, November 17, 2002
A: Bush, Rich Women & the Roman Army
3:23 AM | link |
How is a Raven Like a Writing Desk?
Special Agent Raven
There's a man who leads a life of danger.
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger.
With every move he makes another chance he takes
Odds are he won't live to see tomorrow...
Special Agent Raven, Special Agent Raven.
They've given you a number and taken away your name.
Beware of pretty faces that you find.
A pretty face can hide an evil mind.
Ah, be careful what you say
Or you'll give yourself away.
Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow...
------ lead guitar ------
Swingin' on the Riviera one day
And then layin' in a Bombay alley next day.
Oh no, you let the wrong word slip
While kissing persuasive lips.
The odds are you won't live to see tomorrow...
Special Agent Raven, Special Agent Raven.
They've given you a number and taken away your name.
The raven is in the collection of the author.|
The gripping graphical mystery adventure is not.
1:25 AM | link |
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Digital Rights Management Porn
In January of this very Year of Our Lord, Harvard Business Review named Gonzo Marketing one of the ten best business books of 2001. A b-school prof called to congratulate me on the coup. I didn't quite believe him, and on further questioning he said he wasn't really sure it was Gonzo; maybe it was Bozo Something. That sounded more likely for Harvard, but as you can imagine, my interest was piqued.
Not wishing to leave my chair for fear of actual exercise, I paid nearly 20 bucks to download the entire fucking January 2002 issue from a little digital ripoff outfit called NewsStand.com. Picture if you will my chagrin when I found the document was locked, preventing me from quoting the review of my own motherfucking book. Picture this chagrin morphing into screen-smashing rage when the above "information" message popped up as I tried to capture the goddam page image. Those cocksuckers! NON-FREE CONTENT is right!
Not that I don't value the great attention to my book and everything, but my theory is that HBR didn't want anybody to copy from this issue because of the following notice in its back pages...
This item should have read:
So please, in the interests of Digital Rights Management, do not link to this blog item. Or even read it. Whoops...
ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! YOU ARE NOW IN VIOLATION!
8:16 PM | link |
3:35 PM | link |
Thursday, November 14, 2002
The Morning After +1
|What wonderful birthday greetings! One was addressed to Coyote himself. "Thank you for all your kindness, care and craziness. Howl on." Signed by some miraculous...
Via AKMA Margaret suggested that AWOL bloggers might rationalize their absence by saying: "Please just pretend I'm Chris Locke and don't try to understand me."
Tom Matrullo wrote:
"The thing is, it's wonderful. You know? As soon as the mists clear, the
cells fall away, the ice floes break, the forests return, the guns fall
silent, the glass darkly shatters into a knitting basket of stereoptical
suns, we should endeavor to "catch up" - or even sooner. It's about
time, don't you think?"
And many happy click-on-this-URL's. Oh my. Now I'm getting spam from every e-card scam on the net. How can I ever thank you?
But the morning actually began with Fed-X
bringing me a present (really) from Macromedia. Lookee what I got.
Whee! Of course, I spent half the day trying to hack out this simple
post in Dreamweaver with the new almost-but-not-quite Homesite
interface option, before reverting to Homesite, which has the
exact Homesite interface for christ sake. I'll get the hang of it eventually I guess. And anyway, I was mostly after Flash so I could say in all honesty: baby, suck my bandwidth.
Speaking of which,
Gary Turner, whose blog is
one year old today (huzzah!), decided that the perfect gift for
RageBoy was a Kalishnikov with built-in MP3 player (pictured). I ask you, what kind of search pulls up something like that? The man's more deranged than I am.
Then I came home from the psychiatrist's office to find that my phone had been turned off. I wish I'd asked him about that. But as it hadn't happened yet, he likely would have thought the worst. At any rate, it took me a while to get back online and find these...
George Sessum somehow dug up a picture of Rageboy as a baby. Too weird.
And Jeneane Seessum went whole hog with
this moving tribute. She even started a new team blog "in your honor" -- humans first. Now I'll have a whole pack of rabid Earth Firsters breaking down my door, and in Boulder, that could be a real problem.
Anyway, thanks to all for all your magnificent, zany and heartfelt best wishes for my combination 55th birthday and 19th (at least) nervous breakdown. There was more art and links and letters that I'm forgetting about here at 3am, for which egregious omissions I hope their kind senders will forgive an aging blogger in his final dotage.
5:01 AM | link |
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
What theologian are you?
|"Being fucked is incurable by the strength of man, nor does the pentatonic scale have any validity here,
so that even the all-time-great Monster Guitar Players say: 'The riff I do not wish to blow, that one I do blow, especially in concert after taking too many ludes.' 'You are not playing the
guitar you bought.' 'Since my loins are filled with cum,' etc."
|You are Ozzy Osborne!|
Yeah, you have a way of letting everyone know how you
feel, usually with rock quotes attached, and will think your way through the issues, although
sometimes you make no sense! You aren't always sure of yourself, and you can change your mind about
things, something you actually consider a strength. You can take solitude, especially with some fucking incredibly loud music.
Adapted from Henderson
(via Eric Norlin via AKMA)
11:36 AM | link |
Monday, November 11, 2002
They Say It's Yer Birthday
Tomorrow I'll be 55. What a fucking bummer, huh? I don't know how this happened.
Probably because I smoke too much and drink too much coffee and did lots and lots of psychedelics as a kid, and, as Dylan prophesied, lost my sense of time.
But hey, I got a really nifty present in the mail today, including this neato book. I can't tell you who sent it, as that would be just ever so uncool (thanks Angel). It wasn't Shelley, even though it's her book. Used to be; not anymore. Now it's my fuckin book! (And btw, this has to be the absolutely sickest, most insensitive cover O'Reilly has ever produced. I mean, the Dali Llamas were bad enogh.)
Please DO NOT send me anything off my Amazon wish list, because all I put there is real expensive shit that I don't think is really worth the money (otherwise I woulda bought them already). But you could send me a little FUCKING email. Or if you're feeling superextraordinarily inspired and ambitious, I like getting weird or beautiful or both picture postcards. Send your best shot to me, RageBoy, at 930-D West Moorhead Circle, Boulder, CO 80305.
And of course, cash money is always in good taste. Or, if you're really loaded, this would be nice.
3:59 PM | link |
More Fun With Repurposing Spam
The improved version...
Working? Working??? What is this "working"?
2:49 PM | link |
The Girls of EGR
9:15 AM | link |
Rageboy Called Out As Honky Racist
George Sessum has taken umbrage over my reference to Eric Norlin, who is about as white as it gets, as
"my main nigger." As you can see, George, like Coke, is The Real Thing. The self-admitted multi-bassist proves his solidarity with African Americans everywhere by posting cute little kitty cat grafiks. Dawg, you don' blacken up a tad, I'm-a gwine get mah posse togetha, come ova thea an put the whupass on you, mothafucka! (Did I get that right? Or am I mixing my racial slurs again? Oh well.) This bit , however, I thought was pretty funny. Man, what can I tell you. I wish I could.
7:38 AM | link |
Sunday, November 10, 2002
3:50 AM | link |
Friday, November 08, 2002
Five Missteps to Avoid When Times are Turbulent
This initially appeared in Harvard Business School's Working Knowledge newsletter, clearly a cheap knockoff of Knowledge@Wharton. However, I cribbed these off Corante's Premium Blend, without which
I never would have known they existed. These missteps were like already way insightful, but I updated them for the blogging side of The Industry. Never hurts to take a few tips from the Big Boys...
Wow. How do these guys know this kinda shit? By phoning up God, that's how!
- Delaying decisions that will improve the long-term health of your blog for fear of
offending readers' inflated sense of their near-term self-importance.
- Assuming that the smart way to gear back up is always cautiously and incrementally.
- Trying to bulletproof your blog by moving into recession-resistant rhetoric.
- Trying to broaden your Weltanschauung now. Fuggedaboutit!
- Assuming that a recovery is based on what the hosers think, not what they buy.
10:48 AM | link |
Some Not-So Commonplace Observations
Tom Matrullo writes about nervous publishers, humorless lawyers, bloggers, punsters, parody and play, all with with his usual anti-pedantic panache. Some samples:
...what's at stake here in the journalistic self-image is a proper understanding of the Difference between The Serious and The Not Serious, i.e., a model of play, which apparently is always the thing.
Parody is one of the more seriously difficult modes of meaning to rigorously control precisely because it involves the use of mimicry - drawing acute attention to conventions of discourse - as an essential element to explore and usually to explode the very thing it is imitating. (It is seriously playful shit, and any simply binary effort to create law differentiating it from Serious Journalism is likely to suffer the slings and arrows of an infinite succession of meta-parodies, at the very least.)
If you look, for example, at the fertile exploits of Gary Turner, or at the amazing in-depth interviews by Frank Paynter (which have reached a point at which we do not know whether the person being interviewed even exists), or at the dicey, polyvocal screeds of Mike Golby, or at RageBoy, you might sense something complex at work which, for want of a better word, I would call play.
Yes, yes! Precisely. This ties in with what I've been trying to say all along...
9:08 AM | link |
6:29 AM | link |
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Speaking of el dia de los muertos, when my daughter Selene was first
born, I bought a papier-mâché Haitian skeleton and hung
it over her crib. The in-laws were, needless to say, gassed.
Metaphorically, more's the pity. Anyway, it seems to have worked.
The rest of my life may be fucked up beyond repair, but at least I know
I brought my kid up right. Selene
is now twelve (and a half). Tomorrow after school she's taking her Mom
to the opening of 8 Mile. Bigtime fan. She signs her mail:
*selene mirage - proud eminem luver*
The body text of that one said: "you didn't blog it you imbecile!
What Selene is referring to involves last night. We went to this
restaurant, and as we were going in, she sees a boy who goes to
her school. Worse, when we get seated, it seems he's only two
So Selene says, "You got a pen?"
As it turns out, I do. I give it to her. "You got any paper?" she asks.
I look. "Yeah, here's a Starbucks brochure." Don't ask. "Will that work?"
Here's what she writes:
THINGS TO NOT DO AROUND PEOPLE I KNOW
So yo, Selene Mirage: I want to go to that 4 o'clock show with you
guys. Grab another ticket off the web.
- DO NOT talk about anyone from school.
- DO NOT talk about when I was a little kid.
- DO NOT talk about drugs, alcohol, or anything you can get high off.
- DO NOT talk about sex.
- DO NOT use excessive bad language.
- DO NOT use any bad language.
- DO NOT flirt.
- DO NOT talk in an accent.
- DO NOT act gay.
- DO NOT imitate wild animals.
- DO NOT ask me to foretell the future.
look, if you had one shot, one opportunity
to seize everything you ever wanted
would you capture it or just let it slip?
you better lose yourself in the music, the moment
you own it, you better never let it go
you only get one shot, do not
miss your chance to blow
this opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo...
thanks to my main nigger
for sending the
9:19 PM | link |
Thanks for the cool award, Suze. Does it come with a prize? Also, glad to see something on
the site, even it's just a grafik. But when is whoretalk gonna really start talkin? I know for a fact you got a story or two about me. I'm a working boy myself.
6:46 PM | link |
Dia de los Muertos
I went to the South on the Day of the Dead. The sun was a black rose
in a turquoise sky, my eyes hollow sockets, my bones rattling as I
walked. All this felt familiar. The village children screamed in
fright and ran away. They are so beautiful, I thought, but I
understood their fear. The women though, some of them, would come out
to greet me, weave flowers through my ribcage, around my hips, which
they would kiss with great longing, remembering love. And the men,
some of them, would take off their hats, cast their eyes down. My
heart went out to them. Why only now do we see, I wondered, blessing
as best I could our blindness. I was looking for you there, a sudden
memory from another time. The day faded into night but I could see
everything for miles. Coyotes and scorpions came to me out of the
desert and sat around me in a circle. I sat down too. There was
nowhere to go. I wept. Waiting for you as I have always waited,
knowing you will never come.
2:40 PM | link |
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Day Tripper II
got a good reason for taking the easy way out.
but nothing a couple hits of sunshine wouldn't cure.
9:42 AM | link |
RB Gives 'Em Hell in Chicago:
and another thing...
5:25 AM | link |
Sunday, November 03, 2002
RB is your quality control method
9:21 PM | link |
Bad Day At Black Rock
and now the end is near and so i face the final curtain you cunt i'm
not a queer i'll state my case of which i'm certain i've lived a life
that's full and traveled each and every highway and yet much more than this i
did it my way and yes i've had a few but then again too few to mention
but dig what i have to do i'll see it through with no devotion of that
take care and just be careful along the highway and more much more
than this i did it my way there were times i'm sure you knew when
there was nothing fuck all else to do but through it all when there
was doubt i shot it up or kicked it out i fought on just as before and
did it my way knocked out in bed last night i've had my fill my share
of looting and now the tears subside i find it all so amusing to think
i killed a cat and may i say oh no not their way but no no not me i
did it my way for what is a brat what has he got when he finds out
that he cannot say the things he truly thinks but only the words not
what he feels the record shows i've got no clothes and did it my way...
Thanx & a tip o' the hat
to Sid Vicious.
There, I feel much better now.
6:43 PM | link |
Saturday, November 02, 2002
A blow. A shock to the system. An unexpected death. In media res the
sky fell down. You went to the South, to another country. Your grief
unbearable, you left your body, your mind. Only wind and ocean could
comfort you, lost in them, undone, unborn. No edges, no center, you
became the night, an endless spiral of unfamiliar stars. Where does it
go, this loss? Lost, it has no location, no place to be in the world
before. It changed you, dissolved you. Emptied your heart until there
were no more tears, no memory of sorrow. You slept, you healed. You
Almost. For the paradox of loss is that it never leaves. Its trace
etched deep, its emptiness filling you in moments of unexpected
beauty. In media res the sky blossoms into your heart, too wide, too
high. And you break again. Helpless before eternity, you fall. In
love, remember everything. A shock: you are not alone. You see me for
the first time there with you. Together we remember ourselves to each
Look to the South. I found myself thinking this before you came.
And now you will journey there again. Back closer to that place where
you changed forever, opened, closed, forgot. Have you felt the pull?
The dark invitation? You are afraid. I recognize you. I am afraid and
you know me in this fear. Echo, reverb, deja vu. We have traveled this
way before, first met where these roads cross. I made a pact with you.
Do you remember? That I would take your pain, lift your darkness, love
you. But more. That you would return to me in time. This time.
Soon you will leave for the South. I am waiting.
2:30 PM | link |
2:45 AM | link |
get your badge here.
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.