I wouldn’t call this my first craving, since it’s not a craving. It’s the first crippling anxiety attack that puts me to sleep because I can’t move that I wake up from less than an hour later still having, trying to relax — not wanting nor having to resist any urge, but having a memory, a visualization, a transportation back into a place I was before. I cannot identify what is so terrifying. I can only feel it. And with the collection of these words, I can only now feel it beginning to slowly pass.
So, when I started this (and probably still now), I didn’t want this to become a place where allowed I myself to be overly personal. I wanted to write informational entertainment and anecdotal histories. But what I am about to write is trashy journal writing. I don’t care.
I’m not on drugs anymore, but I’m still a Dadaist. Although, I probably never would have found Dadaism without drugs. And I’m very grateful for the philosophy, so that’s strange. Because I’m also very grateful that I am not on drugs, and that the things that drove me to a Dadaist view are no longer upon me directly. But, as a result of that, I am stronger. I am wiser than I would have been if I hadn’t faced as awful of things as I have.
One of the things that comes back after you’ve been on hard drugs for a while is… “feelings.” I know that’s not the technical term. But, for instance,feeling about people. The feelings that make you really like someone, really want someone, really love someone.
I’ve always had this thing for falling in love with girls I can’t have, especially those who are on the Internet and a great deal of our friendship starts off to do in writing, texts, etc. I don’t know what it is (or maybe I have some ideas), but… at a certain point in my life, both with and without the use of drugs to make it so, I have not felt actual feelings for anyone. The most I have felt in a long time is the amphetaminergic thirst to fuck hard, followed by the amphetaminergic necessity that is being alone.
I’ve never been promiscuous with anyone really, and if I ever have, I was young, and it was occasional. See, on dope, I had the sense to know that sex is negative and harmful on speed. It’s dangerous. If you’re having sex with other drugs users, you may be having sex with people who have used needles, sold their bodies, or something like that. It’s not everyone (the same way it wasn’t me), but there is that there and it’s very dangerous. It’s also destructive and it’s not healthy.
A stimulants effect on a person’s sex drive is fucked up. I have always known that. And for the most part, with small exception, I have acknowledged that not only can a user of this drug not be in a relationship with someone (“and why would they need to be anyway”), but they also can’t be having gross sex with them either (“and besides, it’s better without them”).
You become very detached the longer you do it. While high, you really don’t need anyone. You don’t stop to think about others terribly often either. Your mind just isn’t capable of it.
So… I have this friend… from the Internet. I’ve been friends with her off and on for coming up on 10 years at some point soonish. We used to not be busy adults and we talked all the time.
I try to keep in touch with her. I miss our affections from the past, which when we do talk, we talk about wishing we could see one another. But, we don’t have time to talk nearly as much. Or, at least she doesn’t text me back often anymore. I know life is more than our texting, and I try not take it personally. But this leads to me not texting her, which leads to her not texting me, which leads to me feeling this way.
These are feelings that originated when I started first using drugs, and I started first documenting my feelings. Somewhere I have a journal where I’m fifteen and writing about a girl that broke up with me. I’m miserable. I’m a wreck. Shortly after, I start trying pills that kids with “ADD” pass out to us, because they hate taking them (because they can’t sleep at night). And pretty soon… I don’t write about her ever again.
So that’s a thing that I can’t allow to drive me back one day.
Right now, I’m not at all worried.
Thank you for indulging this garbage.
I do not want to complicate this thing too much because I’m afraid that I won’t say it if I do, so here are some quotes I’ve posted to social media in the last 36 hours.
“I’m done with amphetamine you guys, in the pills and the clear. I’m throwing out all my shit. It’s taken a lot to even say this openly, whether it’s been obvious or not. It’s been affecting me too hard again. So it’s time to get off again.”
This is probably a thing that is beyond obvious to people who know me well, and it’s something people who don’t know me too well probably have occasion to suspect.
I do this while pretending that it’s something that it isn’t in my brain so much that I don’t even admit it to myself when I am alone, or doing it. Awareness of what is going on is a thing that the drug steals from you, because it forces awareness to be stuck in little crevices.
So it’s hard to imagine how someone can be using, not aware they are using, and not talking about that they are using. Telling a great many lies about your destructive antisocial patterns becomes a survival skill. And I can’t even believe that I am saying this, but which is why it’s important…
I’ve been sober since October 2nd. This is the usual amount of time I go between binges. Around this time I start to get tired of being tired all the time. I will have slept enough to start doing it all over again. And I have definitely been thinking about it, but more often lately the aspects I’m so sick of are more apparent to me than my lethargy. It takes like a week to stop sleeping all the time, but it takes like a month for your mind to even start to be unaffected by the week of use. And it probably takes longer than that for it to ever really be, if you can even say that’s possible.
This is all I have to say.
The truth is, I don’t care about whatever I was writing before. That I didn’t finish it, or the mental state I was in at the time that disappoints me so, to see how alien and replacing of me it can be; I don’t care. I don’t care about this sentence, the last one, or the clause structure of anything.
A lot of people saw my nihilism develop from a truly depressed state. Unlike the unaffiliated, doppelganger infested mind that I see traces of passing by like strangers today and in recent memory (what little there is, and how off and on it can be), there was a far more dissatisfaction with life and existence. It was an extremity of such. Suicide wouldn’t have been enough to solve the problems of the world and it’s suffering to me then. I thought, truly, that the only way to make it right would be if not just everyone and everything died simultaneously in an instant cataclysm, but if a certainty that life itself would not re-emerge somehow in its cycle on another speck of dust with the conditions; that would be the only way. I thought, feeling a deep disgust at the passing of birds overhead in the sky where the sun was gently coming down to a basking wet humidity of sweat and misery. Life itself and all its allergenic effects on me colored my view of how feasting upon itself and propelling itself ever forward, we all persist for the perpetuation of the suffering.
I wondered hypothetically, if I had the switch; if I had the nuclear armaments and in enough quantity, placed equidistant all over the world such that a detonation could eradicate existence even for just life on Earth if not for all eternity, would it not be truly the most noble and good thing if I took the responsibility to make it happen.
I said, “Only if every person dies at the same time, such that the suffering of life is not left on the ones remaining. If only then it would be for the best.”
But I would ask, “Even if it is for the best, and if it is what I want, is it okay that I might decide for everyone what is best for them; to give them my idea of what will be for them. Do the ends (a peaceful oblivion) not justify the means, if the only way to achieve it is to stand in opposition to people who would fight me to the exponential increase in the world’s suffering just to try to stop me. If I had such a power, there would be people who would choose to suffer just for the chance to live.
And for this reason I said, “I would not do it. But it would be for the best if others would accept this.” And in my mind, always with an ideation of suicide, I imagined the only way out I could be okay with. It only worked if everyone died. I couldn’t leave behind suffering like that, in my view of self interest. So I said, “This is a thing I cannot do,” as I often thought of how I should do it.a
My nihilism arose from this but it did not stop there. A lot of things changed, time passed, I became a different, wiser person, and I realized the folly of my feelings.
It was true that there was nothing of concrete value making it all worthwhile to endure, but it was this certainty that I began to define what I called, “the true nihilist;” that is, one who does not despair existentially at all, knowing that there is no reason to.
Yes, there is suffering. I suffer constantly I would say without even being aware of it a majority of the time. This is the thing that people should accept. There is no oblivion and this is a momentary glimmer, to be followed by another having no sense of the one before it some day. All will crumble an d everything will be forgotten, and because of this, there will always be a possibility for things that seem to always be the same, or too awful too endure; maybe changing too fast to keep up with — even the best of times that ever were — are subject to a stability brought about changes innately varied in alignment towards law and order. There is nothing that is so permanently constant that it’s reality diminishes anything otherwise, so there is nothing to despair. It doesn’t matter.
And this is where peace lies. In attachment to things, you are unable to move forward into what will be wrought with or without you. You become a helpless passenger. In fear, you lose sight of the power within you to build your life into what you would have it be, how no circumstance must shape the feelings inside of you, which are your own. There is nothing to blame but yourself if you cannot attain this.
I am no Nietzschean, but this is how I hold the will to power. There is power within you to make life anything you would have it be, and though there will always be suffering washed up in the sad and happy things, it cannot stop you if your will to power remains calmly in control of the most stressful madness that can possibly be endured; that most would crumble and be left to streets, prisons, psych wards… And when left to those things, with discipline, a will to power carries on with no reason to complain and a mind clear of despair.
Otherwise, it would be silly to say that you are a nihilist at all; perhaps, maybe, you are on the path to becoming one. But, this is a path facing madness, one that many likely cannot find their will to power knowing. And, given the nature of things, it is of course possible… that to madness, one day, it will be lost.
But I will never give up on being content in spite of all things. This is why nothing truly matters, and I let go.
It’s a good thing I don’t often write here, that you have likely forgotten this exists at all, similarly to how I do myself.
It’s possible I will relinquish any former design of what I wanted to write here, and it is possible I will occasionally make a return to them. But… right now, what I want to write is going to be more difficult to write than anything I wanted to write a week ago.
It isn’t that I can’t organize it. It is, can I be openly honest about it. And, if I tried to do that, would it be possible for me to know the truth about myself that I cannot understand now.
I write this the morning after publishing Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1; technically, according to the time stamp, 7 hours ago on the listed blog post that I would love to open up in the editor to fix it — or at the very least, rename it, “Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness.” But I can’t do that without being a hypocrite, can I?
I suppose it’s possible that there may be a difference in things you edit for different reasons, and that I could potentially maintain my rawness and still fix things that… that there was somehow a good reason to decide to hold back and fix. But, because I cannot distinguish often at times if not always when it is a good and bad time, and as a result have often felt in the end like many things I’ve written were a waste of time… to at least, be taken so seriously by me as a writer. I believe that… this is possibly why I stopped a decade of habitual writing all the time and slowly sank into feeling like it was not worth doing, until the habit was finally gone.
I’ve mentioned this before and how I’m not sure how much this has liberated me or set limits on me. The truth is, it has done both.
The things I have written since I gave up serious writing have been Dadaism in themselves, the sort of thing that I never hesitated to simply shovel on to a Facebook post after that where it can be scrolled over by the attention deficient people of this era who likely didn’t even notice it in the phantasmagoria of scrolling things.
It isn’t so much that it wouldn’t be read that is the issue. It’s the platforms that became suitable for me to write in. I didn’t keep a private journal that I hoped would prepare me for my “works,” which I imagined I was supposed to create to validate my self worth.
What was I if not a writer; the thing I had always been praised for, the thing I had spent so much of my life doing as if it was an important thing I needed to do.
The Dada philosophy I mentioned in Ideas Intersect has certainly taught me how to love myself and be a happy person, coming from the person I used to be who anything but that, and I’m grateful for those lessons. I use them now to be unashamed, bare, and and open about my failures without fixating so much on the importance of what it means to fail or succeed; which in Neon Dada, there is no such thing. I say again, this is a valuable “truth.”
But…I also enjoy writing, and I haven’t done it as often. I don’t think I consciously stopped with these thoughts in mind. In fact I know that I didn’t. But it makes sense to me a lot, especially as I try to write something half serious and discover again the flaws that make me inefficient at times — completely dysfunctional at others.
And there is an example right here in my last post. It doesn’t feel good to attempt to write something you know how to write but have your mental state come out more apparently than what you want to intend. It is very frustrating. It possibly makes me not want to continue things that I start, making it easy to unconsciously forget them maybe the way I do. I know that I am far less excited about what I wanted to write, overthought, and did not write.
The truth is, I feel thatI could have easily downsized what I wanted to do into something sensible if I hadn’t been imagining less what I wanted to talk about, and more how it needed to be so convincingly thorough that my argument would be complete. It’s as if in contradiction to my own values [the dual aspected deity], because there is no absolute correctness my argument could possibly achieve… Similarly to how there is no state of perfection that the pursuit of perfection will ever attain.
I don’t think the pursuit of improvements in how well you understand a thing and the work you do as a result of that understanding is necessarily a negative thing to think about. But it clearly can interfere with productivity and result in something out of control, or irrational. It can result in… the sense of failure that I’m sure many artists, thinkers, engineers, builders of things, scientists, etc; have often felt no matter what they did or how much they are thought to have achieved by others, or not.
It seems impossible for me to write anything without a personal story, psyche column involved in it, because it’s just too obvious what a nutter I am. I do want to be writing this personal confession diary shit. But the truth is that I have to suck it up and do it, because the only other option is to delete my post, pretend it did not happen, or maybe go back to fixing it and do the same thing all over again.
It’s quite embarrassing, really, that I couldn’t see at the time. This is supposed to be a zine where I can write about something easy and fun to write about, like music, if not among other things.
But especially after I’ve gone through all of these thoughts in the last two postswritten — and even some of the ones from before — I feel like I am no longer comfortable with the idea of not writing because of how I feel about what it reveals about what i can and cannot do.
In the spirit of Dada also, I feel like if I can’t make the thing I intended to make often times, then I have to continue to make the things that I did not intend to make.
…because, no… It’s not important that I write anything, and nothing that I write needs to feel intentionally important in some manner. But what is important is that I feel content with who I am and what I do, and have no need to hide as if there is ugliness or beauty at all anywhere.
I have taken many great steps to be happy and would say that in spite of these feelings I am still happy, but I think the next step is facing the few things left that I am still self conscious about. w
And maybe one day I will be half as precise as I wish I was, but maybe I will not wish that I was something I am not, too. And I think both options are okay.
Breaking a two weeks or more-long silence in which this zine unwritten is actually being written again, today’s post will [attempt to] thoroughly discuss the phenomenon of skinhead reggae, how it developed, and what it developed into [but will not be able to finish itself in this single post].
Of course, there will be YouTube links to various track uploads, to color what I’m talking about and explore the many variations of related things that and how they are connected.
If you’ve been following my music column (or just generally the postswritten to this zine thus far), you’ll notice my current interest in a variety of aspects of Jamaican music, dancehall culture, and language; and, from varied time periods, from ska, to rocksteady, roots reggae, and the dancehall music of today, I have written about these eerily similar sound system crazes — all connected, very much similar in ways so much that they are sometimes seen as being indistinguishable (easily described by the word reggae, for example) while also nothing remotely alike in any form.
I’m excited about this post because it inherently involves the story of how and why I have hated skinheads since I was 15 years old, not as someone who is ignorantly only aware of the existence of a skinhead as synonymous with a white nationalist, but as someone who has seen their effect on a subculture I was once very a part of — that is, Bush-Era street punk in South Texas — and resisted the threat of what they represented at what were places I went to and considered my spots to hang out, where the music was a form of street punk I could relate with, and the people were all mostly, more or less like minded enough to have peace; until the resounding and in unison war cry surrounded you.
“Oi!” That’s when you realize they are massive, you are alone, and if you are not aligned with them (and you’re god damned right we fucking weren’t), then you have to resist the pressure that is placed on you to be like them — to transmogrify for the sake of a so-called unity and join in crews they will never admit are very much like gangs. If you will not do this, you are on fragile ice. You can either run or you can fight them, and there is never just one of them. They are massive or they are not at all. If you’re a fifteen year old punk rocker, you keep your head down — or you don’t, you know, because you’re a punk rocker of fifteen years — and you will either run from a beat down or you receive them. You might even decide to engage in violence yourself, because you have a zero tolerance policy for fascism in your scene, and you kill it wherever you see it the same as they would kill you.
I’ve thus far only introduced and outlined the things I need to discuss to illustrate the points I want to make clear and the things I want to connect, acknowledge, and use to hold the conclusion I can finally make about the skinhead phenomenon, which at fifteen years old, not knowing the distant history and how far the skinhead had traveled and how it had molded him, I could never make but finally can. So, I’m going to split this into thee parts as this is quite complex.
On Skinheads, Their Good Taste in Music, and the Folly of their Utter Ignorance
(is that really the title I’m using? Whatever… that’s the title.)
1.) The Spirit of ’69 – This portion will require many of us to pretend that we have never heard of a skinhead and understand how the origins of the culture are quite interesting, seemingly harmless enough, and little known to most people today who associate the word with white nationalism — which for this portion, we’ll have to hold off on talking about to explore skinhead reggae (which I happen to think is actually great music), and how the blending of the Jamaican diaspora with British, cockney people resulted in a seemingly positive racial exchange and a “reggae fever” marked by shaved heads and otherwise very particular, uniform, and sharp dress style.
2.) If the Kids Are United… – Next, I’m going to have to explain how skinhead culture crossed paths with punk rock after 1969 had passed and how neither culture would ever be the same after that, resulting in a list of new genres that come about from an unintentional recipe for hatred and violence laid out when the skinhead and the punk rocker will unfortunately take politics to the streets, and experience a less positive attempt to assimilate together. Also, this will address why skinheads may have been less like-minded with Jamaican diaspora as the 1970’s came closer to the 1980’s.
3.) Post-Skinhead Ignorance – This will be a final conclusion, in which I consolidate my experience with American skinheads as a punk teen in the 1990s/2k into my adulthood, well-read self who happens to currently be pretty into first wave ska music, which… only the skinhead can be said to still feel that way about first wave ska in the same way. In the homeland of ska, ska music is outdated. And I mean, it’s been outdated since before I was born. It’s hardly even referred to as itself by many, because it’s just early reggae that hasn’t for a long time been done without being more reggae than ska (not probably since about… 1969). That said, I will ultimately have to conclude how skinhead culture has always been intrinsically predisposed towards a development into a complete militancy powered by an embrace of ignorance… about everything; and why skinhead culture should not be celebrated just because they understand ska music, (which is amazing, [and much better without skinheads in it.]).
And yes, I have totally just published a postwritten where I outline the post yet unwritten. I know. I’m utterly insane. If I were a professional writer, or if I had the desire to produce myself in the way that one does, I would set this document aside and use it as a rough draft and outline to do the piece, which I will say is big enough to warrant this kind of outlining if not this kind of editorial.
But I don’t do that. I don’t edit or manufacture myself. I don’t enjoy doing it. I don’t want to. Often times the typos you find are ones that I overlooked in the drafting of the document and have become well aware of and have intentionally left them as is.
I suppose I don’t sound like a too stereotypical obsessive or compulsive person, do I? If you’ve read the psyche column at all, you might follow what I mean from there. I sort of do have the capacity to spend my entire life editing a document for no reason, in which no amount of corrections or do-overs will ever produce a thing that doesn’t require further editing or abandonment.
Choosing to leave myself manufactured, raw, as-is, one take to get the shot, whatever happens type of “artist” has never been an easy decision to make. I wanted at one time to leave a masterpiece on the world. I no longer do. I want to leave myself, flawed as I am, content and happy to die with my imperfections.
So I made a typo. Shrug. It most likely doesn’t matter, and so… if I’ve lost you and you aren’t following this foreword into the next posts that will come. So be it. I will gladly have you read, or listen, or watch; I’m not afraid to show myself. But… I’m not willing to destroy the beauty of the world’s ugly things left as they are, so that you lot can be the celebrated artist that is all you really care about anyway isn’t it?
That’s okay. Social acceptance and approval is a natural human thing to seek out to some degree if you are a healthy enough person, I should think. But… it is of little interest to me in terms of my non-art, which I will continue to create in a long winded way for the sake of itself — shamelessly.
It’s kind of getting to the point where all the columns (categories) that I’m using seem to intersect, even if they focus on one topic more than the others. Part of me would like to redesign the organization, stop using the categories the same way, but…
Logic tells me there is no need for that.
Otherwise, I have an outline of what I’m going to write. I have several albums in mind to share as I talk about various things. I want to continue writing this zine, even if it takes me a long time to come back to it sometimes.
If I save this as a draft, it will become lost forever. I will forget that it was important maybe, or that it was ever a thing I planned to do. The organization of it will prevent it from ever being published at all.
Maybe taking my time between entries isn’t so bad. Maybe it will be more manageable for me to actually read them again, and have it as such that of the many points I wish to make, the fewest of them will in the end be unmade entirely. My early LiveJournal blogs of daily postings suffered from an overflow of things that were never worth organization. There was less management of any thought that I had, which is why I was never able to write anything but of my sadness and my glory like a teenager with a diary.
I don’t want to write for a sense of daily therapy. I want to say specific things in a highly unconventional way. I want to make my points, and I want to leave them at least in the open to be unmade.
I’m going to make a point to get back to this project in the next few days — not weeks or more.
I will ever have to apologize for the fact that… if you are interested in me at all, you will always have to wait for me to come back I’m afraid.